


Ungilded Cages

by ThisLullaby (Diminua)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cages, Consensual Non-Consent, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Fisting, Flogging, Handcuffs, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Somnophilia, Spanking, Spitroasting, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Verbal Humiliation, doesn't seem right to mark f/m but there is a change of effort (not identity) at one point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 26,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22017262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diminua/pseuds/ThisLullaby
Summary: To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 84
Kudos: 392
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, Good Omens Kink Meme, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

The cage is just big enough for Crowley to turn around on his hands and knees, spine all slinky in a way it wouldn’t be if he had a normal, human body. Aziraphale lets him have that much. Sits quietly on his haunches to watch while the demon turns a few tight circles, just like any other animal settling to sleep, before subsiding onto the floor of the cage.  
  
He’s turned away (but it’s likely he doesn’t know that, still blindfolded as he is), and his back is a soft sinuous line, his hips set slightly askew, balls just visible between those skinny, offset thighs.  
  
Aziraphale could reach in between the bars and touch.  
  
For tonight though this has been enough. The rope that bound Crowley’s hands is finally coiled, a dark length not unlike the snake himself, on the flat top of the box cage, ready for when Aziraphale next wants to take his demon out to play. There were handcuffs too, still a solid weight he can feel in his jacket pocket as he shrugs it back on. But he’d preferred the rope in the end, Crowley’s arms tied tight to his body as Aziraphale had led him stumbling across the floor, half drugged and bound, bent him over the top of what was to be his cage, and buggered him rather savagely before gathering him up and dropping him in, still sticky and sweat slicked from sex.  
  
‘Just a taste of things to come.’ Aziraphale had threatened. Promised.  
  
‘Let me out angel.’ Crowley had pleaded, still a little blurry from the brugmansia tea Aziraphale had fed him. ‘I’ll be good.’  
  
‘You don’t know how to be good.’ Aziraphale had snapped back. ‘But if you can stay quiet, and do as you’re told, maybe I’ll let you go. Eventually.’  
  
‘When..’  
  
‘When I feel like it. And don’t ask questions.’  
  
He’d released him from the rope though, getting Crowley to put his hands up near the bars so that Aziraphale could loosen it and pull it free. He’d made Crowley roll on his back too, so that Aziraphale could see his cock. Still hard, the dirty boy. Still unsatisfied.  
  
‘Don’t you dare touch that.’ Aziraphale had warned him. ‘I don’t want you getting pleasure from this.’  
  
‘Bit selfish isn’t it?’ Such an adorable brat.  
  
‘ _I_ am only being selfish so that _you_ can learn to be selfless.’ Aziraphale had almost broken character and laughed at his own sanctimonious nonsense, but it was worth it, seeing Crowley shudder, knowing this was feeding his fantasy.

  
  
_'Use me.' He’d said, all those weeks ago when they'd first discussed it. 'I want to feel like, like I’m.. yours. Your.. thing. You know, to play with. And nothing else. Just that. Yours.'  
  
'Darling.' Aziraphale had murmured, taking Crowley's hand in both his own, unable to deny the tingle it gave him to think of Crowley handing him all that trust and power. 'Of course I will. If you’re sure.'  
  
'But will it be worth it for you?' He’d asked later. 'If you don’t get 'off' every time. Or every day? Should we set a minimum? A ratio?'  
  
'Of orgasms?' Crowley had laughed. 'Like five of yours to one of mine?'  
  
'I was thinking more one of yours to two of mine.'  
  
'You’re too generous angel. I meant what I said. Use me. Please. I want you to.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably goes without saying but any kind of concoction made from brugmansia (aka Angel’s Trumpet) is highly dangerous and should not be attempted by non-immortal beings.


	2. The Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

Crowley wakes to the hardness of the floor under him, blinks, half raises a hand to remove the obstruction over his eyes. Remembers last night. His arse is still a little – not unpleasantly – sore. When he stretches he can feel the iron bars, wrapping him around. A tentative hand above his head finds the rough wood of the lid to this box. Toes wriggled out through bars are immediately smacked with what feels like a rolled up newspaper.  
  
‘Really Crowley. Is this behaving?’  
  
_Be firm with me._ Crowley had said. He absolutely hadn’t imagined that would include being smacked with a newspaper. But how terribly, perfectly Aziraphale. Does anyone else even get newspapers anymore?  
  
‘Is it morning then?’ He asks.  
  
‘And what did I say about asking questions?’ Fingers reach through into the cage to twine into Crowley’s hair when he doesn’t respond, to grip and pull. Oh, Aziraphale _is_ being firm. The sharp tug makes something thrill low in Crowley’s gut, a flare of heat, spreading out.  
  
Aziraphale’s voice goes low and dangerous. ‘What did I say about questions Crowley? Don’t make me repeat myself again.’  
  
‘Don’t ask questions.’ The fingers tighten. ‘I mean..’ He says hurriedly, the perfect picture of panic. ‘Me. I’m not to ask questions.’ He takes a breath. ‘Sorry angel. I will be good, I promise.’  
  
It’s the third time he’s said that since Aziraphale caught him, but this time the angel doesn’t sneer. Instead his voice goes kind and understanding. Insidious. Soft.  
  
‘Do you want to be good Crowley? Do you want me to teach you to be good?’ He coaxes. ‘I could, you know. It would take a while, of course. But we’ve got eternity to try.’ He releases the demon’s hair, pets it briefly. ‘Or I could teach you to be good _for me_ at least. I could keep you.. occupied. Out of mischief. Would you like that?’  
  
‘ _Fuck_ Aziraphale.’  
  
Another sharp tug on his hair, like kerosene on the arousal Aziraphale’s words have been stoking steadily higher. The back of Crowley’s skull is now pressed against the bars, his neck arched uncomfortably. He absolutely cannot move without pain.  
  
‘If you swear at me again you will regret it, demon.’ Said low and close and harsh. Granite. ‘Do you understand?’  
  
It takes another yank to make Crowley recognize that it’s not a rhetorical question, yelping involuntarily, his cock now thick against his thigh, brain clouded. Arse clenching on emptiness, on the memory of last night’s vicious fucking. Of being covered and clasped and filled.  
  
‘Yes.’ He pants out. ‘Yes I understand.’  
  
‘Good.’ Aziraphale lets him go, still panting, hot and achy and so, so turned on. ‘Now lie still. I’ll be back in just a little while.’  
  
_Oh the bastard._ Crowley thinks. _The glorious, angelic bastard._


	3. Taking the Lid Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

Crowley tries not to be conscious of time. Tries to find that headspace where it’s easy not to fret, not to think about night and day and listen out for the sound of the angel’s step.  
  
He’s not there yet. Dozes and drifts but finds it just out of reach.  
  
Luckily Aziraphale really doesn’t leave him waiting long.  
  
‘Left hand out.’ He taps the bar to draw Crowley to the right gap. ‘Through here please.’ The handcuff snapped round his wrist twists slightly as he draws it back in.  
  
‘And the other one. Good.’  
  
Now he can take the lid off the box again.  
  
It’s exciting. Like opening a present.  
  
‘So many possibilities.’ Aziraphale murmurs, reaching in.  
  
Hesitates minutely as Crowley flinches away. Reminds himself it’s a game, its fine, Crowley’s fine, and takes a firm hold of his shoulder.  
  
‘None of that. Up on your knees.’  
  
Crowley pouts as he obeys, dallying, and Aziraphale feels himself relax again. Still he fusses and pets a little under the guise of putting the demon where he wants him, combing his hair into order, slipping the blindfold free and tipping Crowley’s head back so he can see his eyes, his thumb running backwards and forwards across Crowley’s lips while he pretends to consider what he wants to do with him next.  
  
‘Something to take the edge off first, I think.’  
  
He uses both hands to pull Crowley forward, off balance, so that he has to put his forearms on the side bar of the cage to prop himself up while his face is pressed into the wool blend of Aziraphale’s trousers.  
  
‘I’m sure you can work out what to do.’ He says tartly. 'Don't make me explain it to you.'  
  
Crowley doesn't. Noses and mouths at the fabric, thick and stifling against his tongue as he tries to find the outline of Aziraphale’s cock, damping until it clings and his lips can press and suck, French kissing the hardening length of it.  
  
He slips back, expecting – wanting - Aziraphale to loosen his clothing. But instead those hands only clasp more tightly around Crowley’s head and shoulder. Stopping him from moving any further away, pulling him in again.  
  
‘When I tell you Crowley, and not before.’  
  
It’s more smothering this time, the wool wicking the moisture from his mouth, making his lips prickle with the slow scuff against them, the iron edge of the cage digging into his forearms, his hair twisted in Aziraphale’s greedy fingers as he keeps him close, gives him no release.  
  
The smug little smirk when he does finally relax his grip and pop the buttons of his fly makes it clear he knows exactly how mean he’s being, and then there’s the complacent way he feeds his cock into Crowley’s mouth (confident that Crowley will, as he does, quietly and obediently take it) and rocks backwards and forwards, at his own pace, indifferent to what Crowley might want. Just fucking, slowly, thoroughly, nice and deep, pausing and pressing against the roof of Crowley’s mouth, the back of his throat, so that saliva pools and gathers at the corners of his lips, slides down his gullet and makes him swallow, and swallow again, Aziraphale’s hand moving to the front of Crowley’s neck to feel it, the Adam’s apple moving against his fingers as the gentle pressure around his cock increases and releases, and Crowley stares up at him, chest aching with the instinct to draw a breath he doesn’t really need.  
  
And then the moment is broken and Aziraphale rocks back, orders Crowley to lick and suck, cheeks hollowing, the bones of his skull impossibly sharper, eyes lowered, fluttering closed as it slides deep again, only for a moment this time, Aziraphale rocking, swaying, a steady beat that grows faster, his self-control fraying with the pleasure of it, chasing the end now, the climax, the wet pump of cum down Crowley’s throat, up over his tongue and lips and chin as Aziraphale pulls all the way out and steps back, so that Crowley falls forward, catches himself, panting and glowing and used as Aziraphale tidies himself up.  
  
‘Not a bad start.’ Aziraphale says, somehow managing to still sound prim, and only a little bit breathless. ‘Now on your feet and over the desk, I think. Arse out, face down, no dawdling.’  
  
Crowley pushes himself up slowly, stiff from confinement, still catching his breath, and steps out of the cage, not bothering to hide his nakedness or his arousal, and sways over to the bare expanse of desk (his own desk, marble topped and cool against his skin as he stretches out across it) to wait for Aziraphale again.

It is odd to think of Aziraphale as stalking, but that is what he does, all the way around the desk, admiring Crowley from every angle before pulling his arms out across the marble more fully and nudging his ankles further apart.  
  
‘This would be the perfect position for a little physical chastisement, don’t you think?’  
  
‘I..’ Crowley gathers his thoughts. ‘No. I mean.. I did what you wanted, didn’t I?’  
  
‘But it’s not about me Crowley.’ The angel says sweetly. ‘Think about how much mischief you’ve caused in your time. It would only be just if someone gave you a little corrective discipline. And who else is going to do it for you?’  
  
‘You’ve no right..’ Crowley tries to stand and is immediately pushed down again. The angel is, despite his seeming softness, strong. The hand between Crowley’s shoulder blades pins him effortlessly, quite helpless, his damn human heart pounding, his thrice-damned human member throbbing with want.  
  
‘I have every right. I _am_ righteousness itself. You will learn not to defy me.’  
  
_Fuck_. Crowley thinks but doesn’t say.  
  
‘But perhaps I will wait. You’ll appreciate it more when you’ve been here a while.’ He considers the point. ‘Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say you’ll _get more out of it_ when you’ve been here a while.’  
  
He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. Heartless mockery in the context of this roleplay of course, but in truth its Crowley’s sudden aversion to being spanked that’s funny. They own two floggers and a paddle, and none of that was Aziraphale’s idea. Not that he’s reluctant to use them – on the contrary it’s a pleasure and a privilege – but he’d never have thought of such a thing by himself.  
  
Right now though he slicks the fingers of his free hand with a snap and presses them in between the cheeks of Crowley’s arse. Carefully but not too gently, two fingers pushing their way into him at first, twisting and flexing.  
  
He doesn’t rush, but he doesn’t dally either. This is meant to be the touch of a bully, not a lover. There should be bite, a little bit of a burn to it.  
  
Crowley makes a moaning noise that would normally be a swearword when Aziraphale adds another finger, just fractionally sooner than Crowley’s really ready for it, crooks them so that he’s teasing and then pressing just.. oh fuck.. just there.  
  
Crowley shudders and everything starts to speed up again, to get harder and faster and _more_. It’s aggressive, the way the angel is fucking him with his hand, working over his prostate, putting his little finger to work now too, enjoying pushing those limits. Crowley clutches the far edge of the table and pants and tries to push back into it, unable to stop himself, but he’s still being pinned down, can take but can’t do anything about it.  
  
Seconds tick by, and he can almost see stars, is hot and breathless and whimpering with it, riding high but never quite getting to the peak. It’s getting urgent now, it’s getting to be too much. His breathing is coming harsh, his hips jerking against the firm pressure of Aziraphale's hand.  
  
He’s so close. So close. Not quite there. Just a touch to his cock, his balls, anything would be enough to set him off, but this isn’t.  
  
‘You have twenty seconds.’ Aziraphale is crisp, clipped, firm. ‘And after that you go back in the box.’  
  
‘Please..’ Crowley can’t help himself. It’s too much. It’s not enough. The angel can’t leave him like this. He can’t.  
  
The stretch still burns, the pressure against his prostate is relentlessly cruel, but the thought of it stopping, with him like this, is crueller still. He’s still whining, a low keen of sound, trying to push back against that inexorable hand, to get more of Aziraphale inside him.  
  
So close. Oh please, anyone, he’s so close. Just a bit more, faster, longer, just.. just.  
  
‘Ten seconds.’  
  
Crowley sobs at the realisation he’s not going to make it, close to tears, desperate for some kind of release, catharsis, from the terrible, tender, insufficient heat of what Aziraphale is doing to him.  
  
And then Aziraphale’s fingers twist, corkscrew, sharp and much too much and oh.. oh.. the sensation spills over him, cracks him open, leaves him shattered after, shuddering as Aziraphale slows, and stops, and lets him slump back on the now warm marble, whimpering and weak from orgasm.  
  
‘What do we say?’  
  
‘Thank you.’ He can’t keep character, can’t keep the honest relief and gratitude out of his voice. ‘Oh thank you, oh fuck.’  
  
A short sharp slap only drives a slightly hysterical laugh from him.  
  
‘ _Language_ Crowley.’ The angel says. ‘Really, now.’


	4. Steady and Selfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

This time Aziraphale puts Crowley back in his box with the handcuffs still on. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s not really finished with him yet. Only finished for now.  
  
It’s rather.. luxurious. Decadent to think that Crowley is waiting for him, whenever Aziraphale feels inclined. Somewhat distracting as well of course, but that’s all to the good. He wouldn’t want to get lost in some great Victorian doorstop – Trollope say, or Elizabeth Gaskell – at this stage.  
  
Instead he’s picked out a few short story compendia – ghost stories and favourite detectives – to help him while away a pleasant hour or two.  
  
Crowley pulls his face closer to the bars to watch at first, twisting his shoulders to give him the fullest possible view. But the angel’s chair is turned away from him, the books piled and propped up on the desk, and there is nothing to see that is worth locking his back and neck into this awkward position for.  
  
Instead he lets himself relax and stare at nothingness instead, soothed by the sound of pages turning, the occasional scuffle of Aziraphale’s shoes on bare floorboards as the angel makes himself more comfortable, and the odd cryptic murmur when some passage takes his attention.  
  
Crowley isn’t sure if he falls all the way asleep or not, but his eyes are definitely closed when the angel sets down _The Mysterious Mr Quin_ and comes to disturb him. He peers around the room as he stands up, every bit as stiff as last time, but finds nothing much changed. The door to the hall still slightly open, the blinds still drawn, a glass and a decanter set on the mantelpiece, drawing the eye because there is so little else in here to draw it.  
  
‘As you were.’ Aziraphale steers his prisoner back to the marble desk.  
  
The books are still piled up, but moved to the seat of the chair. A black, ridged, beaded buttplug is perched up on its flared base at the top of the pile, in easy reach. Reminiscent of Dracula’s castle perched up on a rocky crag.  
  
‘Over the desk Crowley.’ Aziraphale doesn’t wait to see if he obeys before moving to the other side, ready to pull Crowley’s arms out further over the marble surface, and Crowley feels a minor miracle, a very slight warp of reality, as he creates a hook to clip each cuff to as well, keeping his demon stretched out.  
  
Crowley can just about rest his feet on the floor with his legs wide, ready, at Aziraphale’s dictate. The marble is cold and unforgiving, the floor is bare wood. Despite the blinds the room is well lit. And of course he doesn’t have his sunglasses to hide behind. He feels horribly exposed.  
  
The plug is hard, rigid, rubber. There are no preliminaries, and Aziraphale does not trouble himself to pause when Crowley hisses with discomfort.  
  
‘Still a bit tender, are you?’ He asks, and (before he can be answered): ‘Well never mind.’  
  
So the demon moans into the meat and muscle of his arm instead. Hiding his face when it burns. When Aziraphale twists his wrist and the ridges send sensation out up Crowley’s spine, and down, down between his legs, and then when Aziraphale nudges the second, larger, bead in, pulls it out and pushes it in a second time. Then another, forwards and back, teasing, amused by the flex of muscles in Crowley’s thighs and arse, the tremors and soft hisses.  
  
Crowley’s legs are still obediently apart, wide enough for Aziraphale to reach between his thighs and cup Crowley’s balls, squeezing gently while he also increases the pressure to get the very largest part of the buttplug past the snug, resistant muscle.  
  
Crowley moans wordlessly, but Aziraphale is ruthless. Giving him only a few seconds, his balls soft and pleasantly heavy in Aziraphale’s hand as he fondles and pets them, his arse full and sensitised, before Aziraphale begins the slow slide out again, just as difficult as the going in.  
  
Crowley is still hiding as much as possible. His eyes closed, his hair shaken from its usual artful sculpture and sticking up every-which-way again. Aziraphale likes – has always liked - the messy absurdity of Crowley’s hair, even more so when it’s like it is now, neglected and tousled and falling in his face.  
  
Aziraphale pushes the plug in again to its base, focussing solely on that again, pressing as though he thinks he can drive it deeper still. Working it in and out, not always the full length, one or two little bubbles, the very tip, and then the last, twisting as he pushes and pulls.  
  
Yes. That seems to be enough. Aziraphale’s cock is blunter, but he makes it nice and slick, and lets out a small groan of his own – pure satisfaction - as he sheathes it to the hilt in the warmth of Crowley’s body.  
  
‘Oh you were absolutely made for this.’ He breathes. Coming as close to a compliment as he will allow himself at this stage.  
  
After that it’s steady and selfish, his hands wrapping around Crowley’s hips, better to roger him, to drive deep as possible into that sweet, tight warmth. No longer thinking about Crowley’s reactions, about how sore it's making his lovely submissive. Only about how amazing it feels.  
  
This time he doesn’t let Crowley come, doesn't find it as difficult to be self-centred either. Leaves him hot and bothered and dripping with Aziraphale’s ejaculate while Aziraphale cleans himself up in the bathroom down the hall.  
  
He does come back with a warm flannel to swab the demon down before putting him away again. This time (since he’s been ‘quite yummy’) a cushion is added for comfort, and a blanket draped over the top of the cage ‘so he can rest’.  
  
‘Which is not permission to touch yourself.’ Aziraphale reminds him. ‘And I will know, fiend, if you disobey me.’


	5. The Dead Part of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

Crowley sleeps and wakes in short spurts. Things are slow. Not unpleasantly so. There is nothing he can do, and therefore nothing to be done. All the planes of existence are narrowed to this room, this small container of metal and wood.  
  
The blanket is thick and pink and woollen and dims the inside of the cage to a soft apricot twilight, and everything is rather quiet and still, which only messes up his sense of time passing all the more. Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, and he keeps the blinds down, wandering between this room and the others, but mostly remaining in this. Reading again, no doubt. Or making cups of tea.  
  
At some point there’s the chink of glass and honey spice smell of good whisky. An unmeasurable while after that he opens the box to have Crowley kneel between his legs and suck him off. The demon doesn’t need food of course, but Aziraphale feeds him a cube of Turkish delight ‘for dessert’ and makes Crowley lick his fingers clean too.  
  
Later still – it is either early morning or evening, and the light is on – Aziraphale has him over the cage, just as he had the first night. Crowley had pleaded for mercy that first time, had even deliriously threatened revenge at one point. But that had been so obviously a performance that it had been easy to play up to it, to strip him from the waist down and bend him over, to prepare him while he whimpered, and take him while he cursed.  
  
It’s now he’s like this, soft and supposedly cowed, that Aziraphale must resist the temptation to pet and murmur sweet things. To reassure Crowley - when he locks him away for the third time in a row, used but not satisfied - that it will be made up to him.  
  
Crowley only has himself to blame, after all. Aziraphale had offered more.  
  
Maybe next time, he tells himself, and then there should probably be a larger gap to keep things.. interesting. And then, if Aziraphale is in the mood for it, one or two together.  
  
Assuming this frolic goes on that long. He hopes it does. He does enjoy having power over Crowley.  
  
Curious, really. Wielding power was one of the things he was supposedly made for in the grand scheme, but rejected. Yet here, in this smaller and more intimate arena, with his own personal domesticated demon, he’s found he very much likes it. He doesn’t want it to stop.  
  
He will miss the snark, of course, as time goes on, and naturally he will miss their lunches and evenings out. But London is full of such things. And before London so was Istanbul, and Rome, and Corinth. This is a new pleasure, and there will be lunches afterwards, however long it lasts.  
  
_‘A day, a week? Three weeks?’ Aziraphale had asked.  
  
‘Can’t we pretend its forever?’  
  
‘We can pretend whatever you wish, my dear, but that doesn’t answer my question. Putting pretence aside - is there any timescale you have in mind?’  
  
‘Definitely more than a day. Other from that.. I’ve got the safeword.’  
  
‘And you can use traffic lights, remember, if you want to take a break or ask me to slow down.’  
  
Crowley had rolled his eyes at the mention of the imaginary traffic lights. He had never cared for the real thing either. 'Slowing down' was not a concept he easily understood.  
  
‘So I’m covered then aren’t I? Nice and safe. And you can stop as well, y’know, if you get bored.’  
  
Or worried, Aziraphale had thought. But he’d kept that one to himself._  
  
He’s a long way from worry at present, enjoying himself too much perhaps, but still very aware that this is a big thing. It’s just that like all big things, taken in small increments, day to day, it seems less formidable. Like the conversation itself, taken in snatches, over the weeks before they begun. Like the arrangement before it.  
  
So it no longer feels strange to close the box and hear the latch click firmly, imprisoning Crowley in that small space. To see him sleeping peacefully, curled up on his side when Aziraphale lifts the blanket to check. A sleep apparently without dreams. Content and quiet, with no awareness that he is being watched. Yet if Aziraphale wanted he could wake him, and have him on his knees, or over the desk, or on the blanket, bound tightly or merely handcuffed. Blindfold or not. Eyes open or closed. Crowley is bent entirely to his whim.  
  
_‘And if I see fit to spoil myself?’ Aziraphale had asked. ‘Or conversely, if you feel neglected?’  
  
‘Whichever suits you, angel. I want to be..’ He had stumbled then to find the words. ‘A treat you give yourself. Not.. not something you have to think too hard about.’_  
  
Well, Aziraphale certainly has been thinking, but no harder than usual, he's sure. It’s the dead part of the night, when philosophical thoughts often make themselves felt. A good time, he decides, to lay the crime stories aside and try a little Voltaire.  
  
Crowley will still be there in the morning.


	6. The Vanquished Foe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

Unfortunately Crowley decides, next morning, to be difficult again, refusing to let himself be handcuffed before he’s let out.  
  
Leaving him there is not an option Aziraphale even considers. If Crowley wants a firm hand, he’ll get one.  
  
He starts with his hair, pulling until he has Crowley’s head back against the bars, braiding and securing the longer locks of hair with elastic bands so that Crowley is helpless.  
  
Only when he is sure Crowley can’t pull himself free does he open the cage.  
  
Then he wraps the coil of rope first about his ankles, tying it off, and then his arms, from his wrists up to the elbow.  
  
Now he can set his head free and lift him out of his cage by the length of rope that connects all his limbs, just as easily as if he were a bag with a handle.  
  
The demon glares daggers. Humiliated, no doubt. Squirms and complains when Aziraphale sets him down on the floor.  
  
Under these circumstances it is clearly inappropriate to indulge him with an orgasm. Indeed, Aziraphale is no longer in the mood to be indulgent at all. If anything he’s rather tempted to put the flogger to good use. Not least because Crowley has pushed him into this. Has made Aziraphale use force. Which, however arousing it might be, was not what the angel was looking for today.  
  
Punishment can come later though, when the angel is calmer. For now he still wants – what he wants.  
  
‘You wait.’ Crowley spits out. ‘You can’t keep me like this forever.’  
  
‘Are you quite certain of that?’  
  
With his ankles and wrists almost meeting, his long legs bent, the easiest way to expose him is to roll him on his side, facing away. Aziraphale ties the last of the rope to the cage bars. The cage, unlike the desk, is fixed to the floor, and makes a better anchor.  
  
‘No.’ Crowley says furiously, trying and failing to roll back as Aziraphale’s fingers probe and penetrate him. ‘Stop. I won’t let you..’  
  
‘My dear boy you’ve got no choice in the matter.’ Aziraphale’s hand wraps around Crowley’s left thigh, pushing it as far open as it will go. Holding him in place through a quick but thorough prep.  
  
They had agreed that Crowley would not be gagged at any point in this game. His howls are fit to break glass as Aziraphale’s thumbs force the cheeks of his bottom apart, and Aziraphale’s cock slides between, in.  
  
The angel is enjoying it, now, the ferocity of Crowley’s performance, working himself up to tears and friction burns as Aziraphale pounds into him.  
  
He strings it out, even after he’s come, pressing his fingers back into the mess he’s left, already thickening, glossy as he presses in deeper still, three fingers to the knuckle, twisting and tucking in his little finger, then his thumb.  
  
‘No, no, it hurts. Please don’t.. please.’  
  
‘Apologise then.’ Aziraphale suggests.  
  
Crowley falls silent. Only gasps as Aziraphale’s fingers fold and his knuckles press and another throb of pain sizzles up his spine.  
  
‘No?’ Aziraphale asks. ‘Not feeling sorry at all?’  
  
Crowley shakes his head, clinging to defiance.  
  
‘Then neither am I.’  
  
Crowley sobs as Aziraphale’s knuckles actually breach his body. It really does hurt, and Aziraphale is just enough of a bastard to enjoy it. To not be sorry when real tears run down Crowley’s cheeks.  
  
Crowley needs that, the bastardry, the force of will. He has to know that however naughty he is the angel will still try. He will not be given up on.  
  
The tears are cathartic. He lets them fall even after the angel has stopped hurting him and is just quietly laying behind him instead, pressed up against his back as he sniffles into silence.  
  
‘Are you going to behave now?’ Aziraphale asks.  
  
‘Yes.’ Crowley says. ‘I’m sorry. Yes.’

_‘How strict?’ Aziraphale had asked.  
  
‘What?’  
  
‘It’s a fairly straightforward question I think. How strict do you want me to be?’  
  
‘We..ll.’ Crowley pulled a face while he thought, made a few inarticulate noises. ‘You know, really, don't you? I mean, we’ve done this sort of thing before.’  
  
‘I’ve overpowered you before, yes. But not repeatedly. Not over the course of one day, never mind a number of them. If I restrain you, and hurt you, I want to be sure I don’t hurt you too much or too often.’  
  
‘Well. You can definitely pull my hair as much as you like.’  
  
‘And corporal punishment?’  
  
‘Bit of that, yeah. Not too often. Let me recover after.’  
  
‘Other forms of punishment? Bearing in mind I may not punish you in ways you enjoy.’  
  
‘Yeah I..’ Crowley squirmed in his seat. ‘I know.’  
  
‘I should probably draw up some sort of contract. Something we can both sign.’  
  
‘That’s – kind of hot actually.’  
  
‘It will be very businesslike I can assure you.’_  
  
  
So, Crowley thinks. Punishment. Because you can’t know you’re forgiven until you’ve been punished can you? Fisting is one of those things he’s a bit ambiguous about. He likes feeling full up, like his body can’t possibly take any more, and then having to take it anyway, getting stuffed fuller still, until it hurts.  
  
He’s not so keen on the bruising after, but usually a click of the fingers sorts it. Or he’s too shagged out and satisfied to care.  
  
This time he’s been left out on the floor, all tangled up still, and he’s not even sure Aziraphale is in the room. He hasn’t said anything for ages, and the last thing he did was blindfold Crowley so there’s no point trying to look for him either.  
  
It makes it much harder to relax, especially when he hears the front door bell, and voices, and knows if anyone were to walk down the hall they’d see him, naked, his back to the door. Bound and helpless.  
  
Suppose, he thinks, that this is someone Aziraphale has invited here today, that he’s tied Crowley up in readiness for them. So that there’s nothing he can do when the angel says ‘here he is. He’s been very badly behaved, but he’s sorry now.’ and the other person – for some reason it’s always a human in this fantasy, some ordinary human with a ordinary life and average looks - will smirk and say.. and say..  
  
But the front door has closed and Aziraphale is in the kitchen and the air is flavoured with goulash. The human has gone away but the angel doesn’t come back.  
  
Crowley is certain that this is all part of his punishment. Aziraphale surely knows that here, like this, he will be wide awake every single second of waiting for him, and time is crawling by so painfully slowly.  
  
The silly thing is that he wants to be good for Aziraphale. He _needs_ to be good. But he wants to be compelled as well, and the two things don’t work together in reality as happily as they do in his head, and sometimes there are days like today, with tears, and guilt, and wanting to be punished but not liking the punishment.  
  
He’s still listening out when the angel finishes his food. Hears him coming from the far end of the hall, steady steps to the door and through it.  
  
Crowley lies still. Quiet.  
  
‘The vanquished foe.’ Aziraphale is mocking, but not unkind. ‘I should take a picture. It would go well with your other artwork.’  
  
‘You don’t need to rub it in.’ Crowley says quietly. ‘You’ve made your point.’  
  
‘Do you think so? I’m still not sure you really understand what you are in this arrangement.’  
  
‘Which is?’  
  
Aziraphale is smiling. Crowley can _hear_ it. ‘Whatever I want to make of you.’  
  
He finally lowers himself to his haunches and just barely touches Crowley, stroking lightly, a soft tickle of sensation up and down his arm. ‘A pet perhaps, eventually. But right now..’ He thinks. ‘Right now I suppose you might be dessert.’  
  
Behind the blindfold Crowley closes his eyes. Aziraphale’s very tone of voice is making him hot and bothered. He wants to see him. To touch him. To be touched.  
  
‘And after dessert.’ Aziraphale goes on. ‘Something pretty to look at between chapters.’ His fingers are combing through Crowley’s hair now, gentle over his scalp where he’d pulled viciously before. ‘And maybe more dessert later.’ His fingers just barely touch Crowley’s lips. ‘A different kind.’

Crowley doesn’t struggle. He hisses – softly and involuntarily – at the pain of penetration, but otherwise his behaviour is exemplary.  
  
He lies still afterwards too, while the angel reads, even though he’s simmering with arousal and his body is deeply physically tired. Aching from being kept in one position so long, thigh and shoulder muscles quivering.  
  
‘You’re very beautiful like that.’ Aziraphale says. ‘Delicate and trembling.’  
  
‘Please.’ Crowley doesn’t know what he’s asking for. He can’t do this, but he can’t not. He wanted to last at least a week, but it’s hard. Much harder than he thought. He's panicking that he's going to mess it up because he doesn’t feel safe.  
  
‘Ssh.’ Aziraphale is stroking his hair again. It helps. It's grounding. Reassuring. ‘Not too much longer, I promise. You can be strong until I’m ready for you. I know you can.’  
  
He forces himself to finish the chapter, although he barely sees the words, certainly doesn’t get much sense from them.  
  
Crowley’s eyes are wet when Aziraphale finally unravels the blindfold and wipes them. He sways on his knees with stiffness and exhaustion when Aziraphale loosens his ankles and makes him kneel up.  
  
His lips are pink and the inside of his mouth an indecent wet heat. His tongue is agile and experienced as he laves and sucks and worships Aziraphale’s cock, drunk on relief that this very long day is over.  
  
Aziraphale is pleased with him. Rewards him with permission – no not permission, an instruction - to masturbate while the angel watches. It’s clumsily done because his hands are still tied and there’s so much trailing rope weighing him down, but the angel isn’t looking for finesse, just wants to move on as much as Crowley does.  
  
Crowley’s shoulders slump again when he’s finished. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so tired.  
  
The very moment he’s safely curled up and the cage lid shuts on him, he’s asleep.


	7. A Generous Measure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

There is a varied but unbroken pattern to the next two days. Aziraphale has Crowley as and when and how he wants, fulfils or denies him, and between those times puts him away in his box to rest.

Crowley is unresisting. He sleeps a lot, and spends time fantasising about what it would be like if Aziraphale kept him here forever. Or he listens, without really trying to, to the sounds of the angel going about his day – from the faint measured BBC voices on the radio in the kitchen while he makes his breakfast to the small glass of sherry he likes to sip late at night.

At the end of the first week there is a change. For the first time he sees a second glass on the mantelpiece next to the whisky decanter, a second chair at the desk, opposite the first.

Aziraphale sits Crowley down and sets a glass in front of him. Pours a generous measure.

Crowley looks in the whisky glass. It smells just like whisky.

‘Drink it.’ Aziraphale says. ‘There’s no rush, but I expect you to finish it.’ He sips his own delicately, watching while Crowley lifts the glass to his lips, using both hands, so that one isn’t left hanging uselessly at the end of the chain between handcuffs.

As soon as he gets a short way down the glass Aziraphale has him hold it out so the angel can top it up, although he continues to sip and savour slowly himself.

Crowley drinks steadily, enjoying the burn in his throat. Aziraphale continues to watch and add more to Crowley’s glass. They don’t chatter, as they usually would over drinks, although Aziraphale occasionally murmurs encouragement.

Eventually the angel finishes his own and has a second small measure, topping off Crowley’s with what little is left in the decanter.

By now Crowley is definitely drunk. Not roaring drunk, but more than tipsy. Uncoordinated.

Aziraphale takes a small bottle from his pocket and this time comes round to his side of the desk to tip the contents into Crowley’s glass.

It's a clear liquid that smells like schnapps. A sweet peach smell that tastes like fire.

It’s clearly drugged. Even though there is barely a pub measure in the glass Crowley struggles to finish it.

Smiling, Aziraphale holds his head up and raises it to his lips for him, insists on another sip, another. Even through his dizziness Crowley swallows reflexively, the warm palm of Aziraphale’s hand on the back of his head to guide him.

Aziraphale stops him from sliding right out of the chair as he slips into unconsciousness. Completely gone.

He carries Crowley to the blanket on the floor and takes a little time laying him out, unlocking the handcuffs and combing his hair. Crowley makes no movement except the breathing that has become habit. His limbs are heavy, they stay where they’re put. His eyes are closed and lips parted. He could not be more vulnerable.

Aziraphales fingers trace and explore him, all the secret places, behind his balls, the hollows and ribs of his chest, the ridges of his spine. When Aziraphale presses the lids gently open his eyes are beautiful and empty, the pupils dilated.

Aziraphale kisses him, just once on the mouth. Crowley’s lips are soft and unresponsive. So, when Aziraphale puts his mouth against it, is his cock. The angel gives it an affectionate lick. A gentle squeeze. Crowley neither moves nor makes a sound. He’s too far under. Aziraphale takes it all the way in his mouth and sucks, teases with his tongue, even unsheathes his teeth a moment, though he scrapes rather than bites, and not enough to do harm.

Crowley sleeps on.

Aziraphale fetches the cushion to prop his lovely demon’s hips up as he rolls him over, parting his legs again. His thighs fall apart easily, and Aziraphale kneels between them to coax the muscle of his sphincter open too.

There is not a shiver of response throughout it. Not a twitch. Just the soft, sedated purr of Crowley’s breathing. Aziraphale has to hold his hips in place while he has him, and Crowley’s body shifts with the force of each thrust, the dead weight unable to brace, to hold himself ready or press back.

Aziraphale leaves him there, wet with slick and cum, after he’s taken his own pleasure. He cleans himself up with a snap of the fingers, but not Crowley.

There is book-keeping to do, and the angel spends some time poring over a ledger, looking up occasionally to see that Crowley hasn’t moved, that his own cum is drying to a pale smear down Crowley’s thigh. It occurs to him then that he will want the demon again later, so he gets a plug nice and wet, and fills him up with that so he’ll be ready.

He’s buggered him twice more before Crowley even starts to come round, still keeping him plugged and ready in between, and he does it again when he sees Crowley begin to wake. Drowsy and shivering as the drug slowly purges from his system. It’s.. cosy. He can’t explain why, even to himself.

Crowley clutches at the blanket as Aziraphale arranges him for sex, still very weak and confused. Not quite sure this is really happening. Everything is blurred. Sensations and noises don’t seem right. Don’t seem real. His eyelids are heavy. His limbs won’t obey him. When he tries to speak all that comes out is gibberish.

The first hard thrust makes him moan, but it’s a noise he makes despite himself.

His tongue feels too thick for his mouth.

He can see his hands gripping the blanket in front of him but he can’t feel them. He _can_ feel that he is being fucked, hard, and that his cock is pressing into the cushion, and that Aziraphale is pressing fingertip bruises into the top of his thighs as he holds him steady, but he can't, somehow, feel like it matters.

He’s numb rather than aroused. It's almost as if his body isn’t his anymore. As if it’s just there for the angel’s pleasure.

That makes him feel warm inside, but it’s not arousal. He thinks – he thinks this might be what it’s like to be a doll.

He tries to say so when Aziraphale rolls him on his back. Crowley hadn’t noticed he’d stopped, is barely conscious that it means he must have come, doesn’t remember letting go of the blanket but supposes he must have done.

He’s so sleepy still. Blinks and tries to tell Aziraphale that he thinks he wants to go back to sleep, but the next wave of drowsiness pulls him under before he can.


	8. At My Discretion and If Time Allows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

As well as the contract they’ve signed Aziraphale has – being Aziraphale - a second meticulously thought out list. This one with headings that read, from right to left: _No more than once a fortnight, Every few days or so, Probably daily, At my discretion,_ and _If time allows._  
  
It had felt like rather a foolish and presumptuous thing to create at the time, but as day follows day, and the roles they are both playing no longer feel like roles, the scene less a scene and more a distinct bubble of reality, Aziraphale is glad he drew it up. It would be so easy to become too comfortable, too greedy, in this place where the rules are different.  
  
He has already been fairly greedy. Has taken considerable pleasure in ticking off two of the ‘fortnightly’ things, and is already looking forward to the next.  
  
But that is the greed more familiar to him, the savouring of texture and flavour, the lingering over delightful things. The other – the eager snatches and hasty bites – are the things that are unlike him. To treat Crowley as something to be snacked upon - left handcuffed and stuffed between sessions, within the cage or out - should offend his palate if nothing else.  
  
And yet - he likes to think of Crowley being kept ready for him, of the thick rigid length of rubber thrust up inside the demon’s body, trapping Aziraphale’s fluids inside the warm shell of him. Like to think, too, of Crowley’s constant awareness, for those three or four hours, while Aziraphale loses himself in small but perfectly formed slices of Mansfield and de Maupassant.  
  
He likes finding him ready, and being able to sink into him without formality or foreplay – just the barest slick to ease into an arse already prepared. Feeling Crowley shudder around him, hiss out a gasp, very soft. Likes that he can be slow and gentle or pound into him from the first, clutching sharp hips with plump, manicured fingers, or folding an arm tight across Crowley’s chest, stealing his breath, feeling the elastic bones of his ribcage compress beneath the force of it as Aziraphale takes and takes.  
  
That, too, he had no idea he would enjoy quite so much. Finishing, and leaving Crowley unfinished, sometimes barely halfway, sometimes close enough that his lashes and cheeks grow wet with frustrated tears.  
  
‘Bastard.’ Crowley mutters, grudgingly admiring, and Aziraphale gives him a little tap on his bottom, barely a smack at all, just for form’s sake.  
  
Hours later he’ll often find him sleeping, or trying to sleep. Only sometimes is he still turned on, shivering in response to touch, fires banked but still burning.  
  
‘Naughty boy.’ Aziraphale chides, even as he closes his hand around Crowley’s cock and proceeds to give him what he wants. ‘Have you forgotten that this is meant to be a punishment?’  
  
Crowley doesn’t answer, only lets himself be pulled into Aziraphale’s arms, biting down on a plea for more, please, for harder and quicker and not so careful. He’s been aching for it for so long.  
  
He makes rather a mess when he finally comes. Aziraphale is glad he took the precaution of rolling up his sleeves,  
  
He is still mildly annoyed to find his hand soiled.  
  
‘Clean this, please.’  
  
Crowley nods, his fingers wrapping gently around Aziraphale’s wrist the better to guide it. Which, they both realise at the same moment, is surely the first time he has touched the angel like this since they began. Aziraphale has positioned or pulled or clutched at Crowley an infinite amount, but this is the first time he has laid hands on a part of Aziraphale.  
  
It’s very light, just positioning him better for Crowley to suck his fingers clean, tongue licking across his palm, then up to his knuckles. Lips pressing there too. Kissing in fact.  
  
Crowley’s eyes are focussed on his task, his lashes are the same dark sand as the freckles that spill like confetti across his nose and cheeks. He looks rather demure, not even a pennyweight of fake defiance about him in this moment, and charmingly unselfconscious.  
  
Aziraphale can't help but kiss him. Short and sweet, pressing Crowley on his back again. The better to see his face while Aziraphale pushes into him. To relish the arch of his neck and the curve of his parted lips, the clutch of his hands across his own belly, the cuffs pushed out of true, the chain tucked under the little finger of his right hand. His thighs are slim columns toppling back from his hips, his knees cast over Aziraphale’s shoulders while the angel strives to get deeper, pressing his thighs more tightly back still.  
  
He’s so flexible, so willing, so good..  
  
‘Oh _fuck_.’ It is unusual for Aziraphale to swear, but the word slips out, singular but with great emphasis, as he spills inside Crowley again.


	9. Leaving the Lid On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

‘Your fella not with you today?’  
  
The barista dusts chocolate over the cappuccino without having to be told. Adds a small dollop of jam on the plate next to Aziraphale’s croissant, hot and fresh and flaky from the oven. Doesn’t, thankfully, look up to see the reaction to his question.  
  
‘No, no, not today.’  
  
‘I noticed you haven’t been open for a while.’  
  
‘Having to take care of a few.. things. Elsewhere. Just popping into the shop to get some bits and pieces.’ Aziraphale sounds awkward to his own ears.  
  
The truth is he’s not sure he liked leaving Crowley alone in the flat this morning, but this is day number twelve of something he hadn’t been confident would last two and Aziraphale had badly needed some new reading material; his housecoat – a pale gold silk affair he’s had for a hundred years or so which will be far more practical than remaining fully dressed at all times – and most importantly, a walk.  
  
Air. Noise. People. Even some mid-August sunshine.  
  
Being asked about Crowley, who only ever has the espresso here - tossing it back in two gulps, throat working - not only makes Aziraphale feel distinctly warm with embarrassed arousal, but has set his protective instincts off again.  
  
Of course (he reminds himself) the demon isn’t really in any danger - his demonic powers are laid aside, not stripped away – and he had been terribly clear that he was the one to be impounded, not Aziraphale. He would probably be the first to tell Aziraphale not to let his overactive sense of responsibility stop him savouring his coffee.  
  
Well, maybe he’ll get better at that. For now he enjoys but does not linger over his breakfast, and walks briskly back to the small flat – they’re sharing a Bloomsbury block that’s all curves and art deco – and trots only slightly less briskly up the two flights of stairs.  
  
Breathes a sigh of relief that everything seems just as he left it. That when he folds back the cover from one side of the cage two bright, curious, eager eyes peer out from the depths at him.  
  
‘There you are.’ He coos. ‘Were you a good boy while I was out?’  
  
‘No.’ Crowley says, squirming nearer the bars. ‘I've been plotting very evil things.’  
  
It’s a lie of course. Well, almost entirely a lie. What he'd mostly been doing was laying on his back, knees drawn up to the side, drawing idle pictures on the lid of this thing with his finger. Letting his mind drift into wondering where the angel had gone, and what it would be like if he really was here forever. What _he'd_ be like, after a few thousand years.  
  
There’s a kind of pleasant nothingness in his head sometimes, a white noise. Crowley can imagine it growing, bleeding out into the days, emptying his head until he exists only for the moments of consciousness that still punctuate it, pleased if Aziraphale praises him, contrite if he has to be punished, aroused when touched, but that is all. Nothing but a toy for his angel.  
  
And the angel – would he get more confident, and go to Paris for crepes, Morocco for tagine, and take it for granted that his favourite plaything would wait quietly until he was ready to take him out of the box again?  
  
It was at that point in his fantasy that Crowley realised he’d already started to break a rule, thumb rubbing small circles across the head of his cock, the rest of his fingers curling ready, automatically, around it.  
  
So he’d sat on his hands and tried not to think about sex. Which is incredibly hard, much harder than it used to be. His whole life is sex right now. Even his dreams more explicit than usual. Aziraphale has smugly admitted to _watching_ him have at least one wet dream – and the lack of privacy had made something twist deliciously in Crowley’s gut.  
  
He finally notices that Aziraphale hasn’t bothered to respond to his cheek, and squirms nearer still to the bars to see if he can squint through at what he’s up to.  
  
Arranging books, it looks like. A fresh lot on the mantelpiece and desk and the old ones carried through to the smaller, snugger room opposite this. He took a food delivery yesterday evening too – groceries, not takeaway – and gave Crowley another cushion to snuggle up on.  
  
It’s all… nice, Crowley decides. Weirdly domestic. _Long term._  
  
‘Your hand please.’ Aziraphale is back, kneeling down on the rag rug he’s just shaken out in front of the fireplace. ‘No. with your back to me.’  
  
This is new, and not especially easy, wiggling backwards to the bar Aziraphale is tapping against and offering him first one wrist and then the other. He has to curl on his side, bottom folded into a corner of the cage, and when he tries to pull back he realises he’s stuck there, not just handcuffed, but chained to the bar itself.  
  
He screws up his eyes at the sudden invasion of light as Aziraphale flips the lid of the cage open and steps in, smiling down at him happily.  
  
‘Ankles next I think.’  
  
A thick strap of leather is fastened over the cross bar of the cage, around his left ankle. His right is strapped to the bar right at the bottom of the cage that it was already resting against.  
  
Then there are more straps, around his thighs this time, pulling them apart and tight to the bars as well, and then Aziraphale isn’t happy with how he’s fixed one of the ankle straps and adjusts it so that Crowley’s leg isn’t bent in quite such an awkward way (while still having to bend, because there really is not a lot of room to play with).  
  
He runs his hands down Crowley’s thighs, checking for tension. Checking that he can hold this position without too much discomfort. Steps outside and runs them over the cheeks of his bottom, framed and pressed into the two bars that flank the very corner of the cage. Thumbs them apart, rubbing up the soft, shiny skin hidden between, pressing forward over the hole, the seam down his balls, and taking a hold of his cock to give it a gentle squeeze and pull it back between Crowley’s thighs. It’s springy, uncooperative – not truly hard but no longer soft.  
  
Crowley is panting. He tries peering over his shoulder, but the line of sight is all wrong, and he can’t see what’s happening down there. Can hardly move at all. Something besides Aziraphale’s fingers is being rubbed across the slit of his semi-erection, pressed against his balls, slid up the length of his rapidly stiffening (but still firmly held) shaft. He's not sure what.  
  
It moves away and there’s a quiet click and then a buzzing that Crowley has a second to recognise before the vibrator is on him, stroking along his cock again, coddled against his balls in Aziraphale’s palm, a soft egg shaped thing that sends shockwaves through every part of him, that makes his cock jump in Aziraphale’s hand. That throbs more intensely as Aziraphale presses it against the root of Crowley’s erection, just forward of his balls, snug between Crowley’s thighs, and Crowley’s cock jerks again and suddenly spatters his thighs with cum.  
  
Aziraphale gives him a moment before pulling his cock back again, milking the last few drops as it withers.  
  
Then he steps back in, hunches down as best he can in the angle of Crowley’s body and reaches between Crowley's legs again, very matter of fact. Deliberately pulls it forward to dangle, limp and lewd, against Crowley’s thigh.  
  
His own, when he opens his trousers, is expectedly hard. Crowley’s eyes follow him as he touches it, first the tip as it rises out over the waistband of his pants, and then the length, folding the fabric down under it to reveal it, rucking the shirt up.  
  
Aziraphale’s pleasure comes in stages. First relatively slow and teasing, still up on his haunches, with a steady up and down movement like a piston. Then on his knees, one hand around the cross bar of the cage, thrusting into his fist rather than moving his wrist. And lastly bent forward over Crowley’s face, his elbow on the bar, casting Crowley in shadow, wrist a blur, tugging and aiming drunkenly for Crowley’s mouth, his chin, his still-bright still-open eyes.  
  
Crowley is salivating and swallowing at intervals. He can smell Aziraphale’s cock from here. He can see the whole lovely fat length of it slipping through his soft, manicured fingers, but he can’t possibly get his mouth around it. Can't even kiss it. Can't do anything at all.  
  
Until Aziraphale finally comes all over his face, clogging his lashes and painting his cheek and lips, and Crowley's tongue can slip out for a taste.

Aziraphale leans back out of the light to admire his handiwork.  
  
Apart from the little drop Crowley can reach with his tongue, Aziraphale’s cum lays thick and sticky and surprisingly copious, considering how little time it’s been since his last ejaculation. He smears it with a forefinger, trying to paint the letter A across Crowley’s narrow cheek.  
  
Crowley looks away, blushing, embarrassed at being embarrassed, colour deepening and spreading down his chest as well as across his face, stuck in a feedback loop of delicious humiliation.  
  
Aziraphale watches, a faint, amused smile on his face, dabbling with his middle finger as well now.  
  
‘Pretty.’ He murmurs, and since he can’t bring himself to glare at his angel, Crowley glares instead at the wallpaper. Aziraphale's smile turns fond. He tucks one of the cushions comfortably under Crowley’s head and the other between his head and the bars before pushing himself up to his feet.  
  
It’s a relief to stretch his limbs, the walls of the cage confining even with the lid off.  
  
Which reminds him.  
  
With a snap of Aziraphale's fingers the wood of the lid shivers and becomes barred metal, little different from the walls of the cage, creaking and clanging harshly when Aziraphale swings the lid shut, and again when he shoots the bolt.  
  
Now he can look down through those bars at Crowley, all huddled and bound. Eyes closed. Passive.  
  
'So sweet.' Aziraphale says. 'But I want to show you something.'  
  
He has his hands in his pocket as Crowley turns his head. Takes the vibrator out again and holds it up by the long, long cord that loops round from the fatter end of it, spinning slowly so that Crowley can see how it's not quite a perfect egg. Is actually flatter on one side, more like the shape of a clockwork mouse. Neither is it perfectly smooth, but has little bumps, ridges down it's back, and a clip on the end of the tail.  
  
'To stop it getting lost.' The angel explains, producing a small bottle of lube and fairly drenching the thing, turning it round and round in his palm so that it’s coated nice and evenly.  
  
Crowley doesn’t speak. Only watches obediently until Aziraphale stoops back down, and then gives up watching only because he can’t see. Can only feel the cool touch of the thing to his body, pressing in against the muscle, vibrating lightly, the barest shiver of movement. Aziraphale’s forefinger rubs around the nose of it, coaxing Crowley to relax, to warm and let it in.  
  
It would be easier if his thighs were tethered further apart, but the cage is too short for that, and it is moving in now, in slow but steady increments. Undulations. Even at this slow speed the sensation is intense as the widest part of the vibrator stretches Crowley out, out, and then, slick as anything, the muscle relaxes, and Crowley knows it’s all the way in.  
  
Aziraphale sits back and watches the remaining ‘tail’ slowly shrink as the thing moves deeper under it's own power, shivering up another two or three inches until it hits somewhere very sensitive inside, and Crowley moans aloud.  
  
Aziraphale immediately arrests it by catching its tail, pushing the button on the remote to increase the speed and violence of the vibrations, hitting Crowley just right. Crowley is hard again in seconds.  
  
‘Angel. _Angel._ ’ He says urgently as Aziraphale pulls back on it and Crowley doesn’t quite get what he wants.  
  
Aziraphale lets it go, watches it be gobbled up again, watches Crowley tense and tremble. Pulls it back and thumbs the power back down, denying him again. Crowley squirms. He can feel it pushing up into him, working deeper a fourth time. Relentless, buzzing, _not enough._  
  
This time as soon as it’s as deep as it needs to be Aziraphale ties the tail off and stands up.  
  
Stands over Crowley’s helpless body, watching how he stiffens when Aziraphale thumbs the remote again. Begins to shake on the third setting.  
  
‘Oh that’s lovely.’ The angel says, and takes it just a notch higher.  
  
‘Please.’ The angel is toying with him, flicking between those last two settings, and it’s right where he needs it and oh. Oh fuck it is too soon since last time but it’s worth it, a meagre teaspoon of stickiness sliding down his thigh as he comes.  
  
‘Very nice.’ The angel says, and turns the thing down, but not off, so that Crowley is kept just gently bubbling until next time.

Crowley tries not to bear down on it. He knows from previous experience that it can’t be driven out, and trying will only make it feel bigger, the vibrations harder, as he squeezes. It’s not that large really, not that violent. It’s just that he’s sensitive straight after climax.  
  
Still keyed up too. It makes it harder to ignore it, to breathe slowly, take each minute in turn. Wait to calm down.  
Part of him wants to clench, to wriggle, to make it worse, even though he knows it can’t come to anything while the vibrator is set so low. Even though it would hurt to be made to come again so soon.  
  
He can smell Aziraphale on himself. Feel the last round drying and flaking on his skin as he turns his head and tries to squint.  
  
He can’t see Aziraphale’s face. The light is behind him.  
  
Crowley feels like a specimen, a lab rat. He closes his eyes and settles down again on the cushions, reassured to think that there is nothing he can do. That his whole being is in better hands than his own. More certain hands.  
  
The stimulation is easier now. His skin feels warm, his limbs heavy in their confinement, and he’s surfing a slow tide of arousal.  
  
‘That’s right.’ Aziraphale assures him. ‘You just wait there for me.’  
  
Crowley is content to do so. There’s the faint creak of the chair, the sound of pages ruffling as Aziraphale finds his place in his book. Quiet, happy, settling sounds.  
  
Crowley waits, lets his head fill with emptiness, half-formed thoughts that slip away without finding purchase, like soft, scented smoke. He’s not frustrated, even as the minutes slip into hours and the shivering pleasure goes on, relentless. To be frustrated would require expectation.  
  
After another little while tears slip down his cheeks, even though he’s not in pain, doesn’t quite understand where they’ve come from. He’s not unhappy. He’s not really anything right now. Except Aziraphale’s. Just that. It’s all he wants to be.  
  
Just a few tears. He blinks and they’re gone. Dried up like Aziraphale’s spunk - they used to call it spunk, Crowley remembers, back in the days of Victorian erotica, when an ejaculation was a cry of surprise. They used to call it jism too. Aziraphale probably still does, but thankfully not aloud.  
  
Crowley’s brain is turning over again, he realises, the pleasant fog lifted.  
  
Probably because Aziraphale has laid his book to one side and is peering down into the cage again, radiating smugness and just the slightest hint of bastardry.  
  
He fingers the remote, still in his pocket, runs his thumb over the buttons. Presses just once, and then, on a count of five, once again. Not forcing Crowley to come, just to writhe a little bit, breathing heavy, caught up again by all the bindings, the bars. Aziraphale smirking and watching and toying with him in a way that only makes it hotter.  
  
Until he does come, and still, relentlessly, Aziraphale plays.  
  
Too much, _too much_. His body is whimpering without his permission, trying to flex. Shuddering, wet with tears. Too much, too much.  
  
It eases, swells, eases. Brute bastard angel.  
  
Crowley subsides, panting. Remorseless, mindless, the vibrator dances on.  
  
Harsh breaths, not his own, stifled moans somewhere above him.  
  
Humilation adds its own sharp spur to Crowley's arousal as he realises Aziraphale is wanking over him, coming on the cage bars to drip – what little does drip through – on Crowley’s shoulder and neck and in his hair.  
  
He’s still blushing. Harder, brighter, redder.  
  
The chair creaks, but this time the vibrator goes faster, not slower. Crowley tightens in on it despite himself, wanting more of the awfulness. Hot, wet tears, struggling now to get free even though he doesn’t want to, his body refusing to stop, refusing to obey him.  
  
He can’t think, can barely breathe for sensation.  
  
It stops. Just stops, and now he is frustrated. Could howl with it. Bites down on the cushion and tastes his own tears. His own salt soaked into the wool.  
  
A gentle buzz starts from the bottom again, almost nothing, and then there’s Aziraphale’s quiet hum of satisfaction.  
  
Crowley waits.  
  
Another time, another. Aziraphale pokes and pulls and lets the thing shimmy itself in again. Strokes tenderly over Crowley’s balls, down over the tail of him, the perineum, the soft smooth skin. Just a short caress. Rubs the full head of his cock there, not quite able to seat it properly with the bars of the cage between them, but able to stroke and poke and aim between Crowley’s thighs, make him mucky there too.  
  
That's enough for himself. He's sated. Sleek as he would be from good food and a fine full-bodied claret.  
  
The rest of the night - it is full night by now, dark and quiet in the square outside the window - is a tease. A game of brinkmanship in quick, dirty bursts between chapters. Ten seconds, five seconds. Not long enough.  
  
Not troubling to stand up and watch properly. The remote on the desk close to his fingers. So easy. Too easy. Just imagining the way Crowley’s cock must fill, and the trembling of his limbs, and the frustration each time.  
  
A puppet. A poppet. Letting all his buttons be pressed. Being so good.  
  
Towards morning Aziraphale rewards him. Lets him come again. And then lets him sleep, loosened off and sprawled as far as a sprawl is possible, the blanket draped tenderly over.


	10. Going Off Script

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

Conscience, or something very like it, wakes with the sunrise. Aziraphale is not ashamed of using Crowley hard, but of doing it in such a cavalier fashion.  
  
Of enjoying his own high-handedness and treating Crowley like.. like.. well, like Crowley had asked to be treated.  
  
Tied up and made to take more than he thought he could bear. Left an unholy mess of tears and other fluids. Exactly, explicitly, what he had asked for.  
  
Can he really have enjoyed it? Aziraphale knows of course that one half of the world, as dear Jane’s dear Emma would say, cannot understand the pleasures of the other. It is sheer arrogance, real arrogance, to assume someone doesn't know their own mind just because their tastes are entirely different to yours.  
  
This is so _very_ extreme though.  
  
It is a relief to see Crowley yawn and blink up at him after breakfast, smiling in his snakily sated way. Probably knowing Aziraphale needs reassurance (but should it really be Crowley’s job to reassure him through this? Aziraphale thinks not).  
  
He still smells like sex. That, too, goes some way to easing Aziraphale’s conscience, comfortably leavening it with lust.  
  
The handcuffs are ready in his pocket, it barely requires a thought to unlock them and pass them down through the top of the cage for Crowley to take. To put them on himself this time.  
  
The blindfold Aziraphale adds, pulling Crowley to his knees before the chair and seating himself, winding the length of a velvet cravat twice around Crowley’s head before tucking it in to keep it there.  
  
He’s still filthy, and Aziraphale touches his jaw gently, lets the blessing clean Crowley not in a moment but a slow sensuous sweep down his skin. Crowley feels it shimmer over him, a caress from head to toe, soothing down his limbs and through his hair and scalp, but more intimate over his lips and between his thighs, the hard little nubs of his nipples.  
  
Then Aziraphale kisses him. He’s conscious that he’s going off script a little, but Crowley is too, he feels, becoming so pliant only two weeks after being snatched. Surely that should take – well who knows how long. So he takes small sips at first, warming and coaxing Crowley's mouth beneath his own, and then there is the the slow, erotic slide of tongues as Crowley’s lips part and he surrenders to the feeling.   
  
The demon loses himself in it, unguarded, quick to accept the familiar pleasure, and is shocked at how quickly it undoes him. There has been any amount of sex since Aziraphale ensnared him, but this is their first proper kiss, and it touches deeper, exposes him. He finds his chest tight and eyes damp again behind the blindfold.  
  
He hadn’t thought to negotiate kisses, hadn’t realised how deeply they would affect him in this context. He had said ‘be firm’ - he had not thought to say ‘be harsh’.  
  
‘Crowley.’ Aziraphale murmurs, bringing him back to himself, uneasy at how the demon is shaking under his stroking hands, the kisses he is pressing to his cheeks and forehead.  
  
‘No it’s good. It’s good.’ Crowley says, snivelling in the most undemonic manner. And it is. It’s a relief, like a monsoon over parched earth, like some heavy load he didn’t know he was carrying until it slipped from him. He can’t hide now, and that means he needn’t try, and he’s grateful for it.  
  
‘Can you give me a colour, love?’  
  
‘Green.’ He’s settled his cheek on the angel’s thigh, the tears and tremors easing already, enjoying being petted, now. Basking in attention. It was nothing. It's fine. He's fine.  
  
Aziraphale continues to stroke him, not sure which of them needs the reassurance more, until he is satisfied that Crowley is entirely content. Soothed, almost boneless.  
  
So lovely and trusting. Aziraphale can't help but move with more intent; dipping his fingers into Crowley’s mouth for them to be sucked, tightening his other hand in Crowley’s hair, the better to hold him steady, and watch how Crowley’s cheeks hollow. He lets the lust that’s been tugging at him all morning build, reels Crowley closer in between his thighs, knees shuffling on the bare floor, fingers fumbling with his buttons, so that Crowley can take him in his mouth, still quite soft, tongue flicking and lips sweetly pursed, solidifying Aziraphale’s pleasure into something definite, something possessive and just a little dark.  
  
‘You’re a tart, really aren’t you?’ He asks, back on script. Sliding his now hard cock deep into Crowley’s mouth, fingers twisting cruelly in his hair. ‘Much too good at this.’  
  
Crowley proves it with another undulation of his tongue as Aziraphale slips away, pressing Aziraphale up against his soft palate, making him gasp, cushioning him against his teeth with his top lip, then flickering against the tip when Aziraphale is almost withdrawn, before he pushes in to the root again.

‘Slut.’ Aziraphale says breathlessly, the taboo strangely easy to break while he's this aroused. ‘Do you wonder at your punishment?’  
  
Crowley, effectively gagged on the angel’s cock, flares of pain teasing down him from the deathgrip Aziraphale has with both hands in his hair, head spinning at how good it feels to have his prim Dom Aziraphale say such things to him, would like to be punished a bit more rigorously, actually. Would like the bastard to stop talking and fuck his mouth properly.  
  
Bastard knows that, of course he does. It’s why he’s making him wait, drawing back, drawing it out, while Crowley is hot and flushed and drooling.  
  
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance to prove what a tart you are.’ Aziraphale promises. ‘On my terms.’  
  
And Crowley shivers at the tone of it, because this is not an act, this imperiousness, this rapaciousness. This is quite definitely a promise.  
  
_He likes that._ Aziraphale thinks, thoughts syrupy with physical pleasure as he surfaces and sinks into the satisfying heat of Crowley’s mouth again, using Crowley’s hair as a tether, without pause this time, fucking him slowly, like the tick of a lazy clock.  
  
He half forgets this is a game. Only remembers that he is in charge of it. That Crowley will cater to it, throat wide, eyes blind, fiendishly clever tongue coaxing Aziraphale to go faster.  
  
Not yet, he thinks. Soon, but not yet. Just a little longer.  
  
His thoughts are blurred, body taking over, finding it not enough, slipping up a gear, and it’s good, so good, to take what’s his. To take Crowley, moaning his own pleasure while the demon swallows and salivates around him, cheeks hollowing again over the lovely shape of his skull, this human self that can be tethered, and imprisoned, and in that way allows him to possess Crowley too.  
  
‘All of it.’ Aziraphale says, stammers out somehow in the moment before climax, and Crowley’s throat works as the angel’s cock jumps against his tongue, and the sea-salt taste of him comes in a flood and threatens to drown him.  
  
Afterwards he can still taste it, swallows again, can feel an ache, a strange emptiness, like an afterimage in the back of his throat.  
  
Aziraphale sits back and tidies himself up, wondering if Crowley misses coffee, and food. Most of what he has consumed in the last thirteen days has been this.  
  
He feels a sudden impulse to spoon feed him. Or bottle feed, with them just like this, with Crowley on his knees. But they would have to talk first. It may seem a small thing to him, but he’s unsure about Crowley. His - Aziraphale supposes the word is triggers - are not always where one might expect them.  
  
He ought to put Crowley back in the box, he realises, even if he’s tempted to keep him out all day to pamper him, even if he thinks of that as a kindness. He ought to put him back in the box because that is what they agreed.  
  
And then he should tick yesterday’s revels off the list. He’d been too unsettled earlier to enjoy recording it. He thinks he will, now.


	11. His Other Self

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

After that it’s a slow, lazily indulgent sort of day, and Crowley a luxurious pleasure taken at intervals.  
  
So is the next, the end of the fortnight, and only after Crowley is back in the box and sleeping (handcuffed and blindfolded but not uncomfortable) does Aziraphale realise he hasn’t spoken all day. Hasn’t spoken, in fact, for nearly two days.  
  
It’s almost as if - since he's not able to be gagged - he has gagged himself.  
  
Aziraphale is fairly sure this is by choice and that Crowley _can_ speak. Would if anything were said to him that couldn’t be answered with a nod of the head or simple obedience, stretching out across the desk or sinking to his knees.  
  
But in the last 37 hours (as Aziraphale’s treacherously perfect memory informs him) he has only given Crowley instructions and called him.. well, what tomorrow he intends to prove him to be.  
  
Hence the verbal humiliation. And the blindfold. This particular game will benefit from both.  
  
It will also be more effective if Aziraphale is not too close by when he performs the miracle it depends upon.  
  
In truth he wants to get the measure of the thing, as well, before letting it near Crowley. Even though the other him – the split off part of his essence that he intends to create – will never be outside his control. Never completely separate.  
  
Indeed, there is an odd moment of double vision at the moment he makes it. As the avatar tilts his head, and he feels the movement, shares the sensation, sees his own self in a dark gold robe for a moment, before he manages to separate the different strands of being out again and look the double over instead.  
  
It seems Aziraphale has conjured him up in black trousers and a dark red waistcoat with a silky, silvery back to it, a white shirt with a stiff collar, and a rich burgundy cravat.  
  
He looks very nice, even if he does say so himself. He would look better still with darker hair, but that feels inappropriate, somehow. It’s important that this other him doesn’t look like someone else, even if the whole point is that Crowley should not be certain he isn’t.  
  
‘Will I do?’ The double asks. He has his own voice of course. A measure of autonomy, even if he is dependent for his existence on Aziraphale’s willingness to sustain it, and only able to perform miracles if the angel sanctions them.  
  
‘Yes. I think so.’ Aziraphale smiles at himself.  
  
‘Lead the way then.’  
  
Crowley is still asleep. Wakes when the bar of the cage scrapes open. Stretches a little. Realises he is still handcuffed. Blinks behind the blindfold.  
  
The avatar waits for Aziraphale’s lead. Not coming to a halt like a machine would, but with an eyebrow raised and a polite air of expectation.  
  
‘We have a friend here Crowley. A guest.’  
  
‘A guest?’ And Aziraphale feels a touch of relief to find that yes, clearly Crowley can still speak.  
  
‘I want you to come out and meet them.’  
  
Gingerly, what with the handcuffs and the blindfold and the confines of the cage and the fact that Crowley’s legs have much better stability when he’s moving than when he’s still, Crowley gets himself up to his feet.  
  
‘Now if you take his arm that side, and I take this.’ Aziraphale says. And Crowley can feel it, the hands either side of him, lifting him out. Two people, unmistakably.  
  
Two people pressing him down on the weave of the blanket. One holding his hands above his head while the other parts his legs.  
  
‘That’s right.’ Aziraphale’s voice from behind him, holding him, while someone else cups his balls and licks a stripe along the length of his cock, leaving the faintest trace of it on Aziraphale’s tongue too. An echo.  
  
‘He’s pretty, isn’t he? I knew you’d like him.’  
  
‘Angel.' Crowley says as he squirms back, finds he's held too tightly to go far. 'Who is that?’  
  
‘Someone who's going to show you what a tart you are, Crowley.' Aziraphale says. 'Now, you’ve been nice and quiet for ages. Couldn’t you manage a little longer?’ He looks up at his double. ‘Pardon the noise. Please continue.’  
  
_Fuck_ , Crowley thinks, stomach clenching, hearing Aziraphale offering him up so bloody graciously. Like Crowley is a morsel of smoked salmon he wants to share. A bottle of wine, a box of chocolates. A silly little treat.  
  
Slick, thick fingers are pressing delicately back past Crowley’s balls, another hand pushing his knee up to get a better look. Tightening as Crowley tries to push it down again.  
  
‘I don’t..’  
  
‘I said _quiet_.’ That’s what Crowley thinks of as Aziraphale’s Dom voice. He quiets. Slick fingers moving into him now, scissoring and stretching. It surely must be Aziraphale, but it doesn’t feel like him. Whoever this is they’re more hurried and at the same time more diffident, not so sure where to touch him, or how.  
  
Aziraphale watches himself as he preps Crowley, seeing his own face, the sheer greed on it, the savour with which he moves his fingers inside Crowley to make him shudder and whine.  
  
It’s a revelation. It makes his mouth dry, his heart pick up.  
  
Crowley pulls suddenly, sharply, on his wrists, as if to break free, and Aziraphale has to tighten his hold. Does it again as Crowley’s other knee is pressed back and Crowley tugs again.  
  
‘Ignore him.’ Aziraphale assures his double. ‘He wants it. He’s just being difficult.’  
  
Crowley shudders as he’s penetrated - deep and slick and a little too fast – by someone who groans with satisfaction very like the angel does after a long, long dry spell.  
  
It makes Aziraphale stare. Wonder. Reach into that other mind, that shadow of his own, and feel – eagerness, desperation.  
  
He sees it too when the other him lifts his head, meeting his eyes, aware he’s being scrutinised.  
  
_don’t send me back, don’t make me stop.._ echoes as well in his head. The pleasure of having, of _Crowley .. crowley, crowley.._ lust and love and wanting, seen from outside, felt from outside. Shockingly powerful.  
  
_What did you expect?_ the creature is asking. _I’m you. Of course I want him, hunger for him, love him, he's Crowley.. crowley._  
  
He doesn’t have Aziraphale’s control. Is already coming, heady shivers of it infecting the angel with feedback, pricking his own desire.

‘My turn I think.’

His other self sets Crowley's head in his lap once they change places, and Crowley is wet with his cum, sloppy with it, running back down his thighs, and Aziraphale calls him a slut again, even though he’s the one who’s done it to him.

‘Do you like being pimped?’ He asks. ‘I think you do.’

Crowley is red clear down his chest, squirming, hot with degradation.

‘No.’

‘I don’t think I believe you.’ Aziraphale tells him, three fingers fucking Crowley just right, making sure he enjoys it. (If any of this were real that might be the most unkind thing of all.) ‘Do you believe him?’ he asks.

‘Not for a moment.’

Relief washes over Crowley with the sound of that voice. Aziraphale, a little rough around the edges with lust, but unmistakable.

‘Why don’t you tell him what we’re going to do to him after this?’ The first Aziraphale suggests, pleasantly, loosening the belt of his robe. Smiling beatifically as the avatar – he’s already getting fond of the thing – puts his mouth to Crowley’s ear and tells him how he’s going to be tied up over the desk with his arse ready on one side and his mouth the other, so they can both screw him at once.

‘You’ll like that won’t you?’ He asks. ‘It’ll make you feel _used._ ’

Crowley whines, soft, in his throat. His hips move to meet the angel’s as he’s fucked this second time, all fight – pretend or otherwise – gone out of him for now.

‘Oh you are a little slut for it, aren’t you?’ The thing murmurs, delight and affection and a hint of disdain. ‘Come on. Admit how you want to be done. Pimped. Thoroughly misused.’

 _‘Fuck.’_ Crowley says. This.. this Aziraphale is dirtier he’s sure.

Or is this his one and the other the one reaming his arse? He realises he doesn’t actually know. He's being fucked quite hard now, and his head falls out of that welcoming lap, his wrists pulled back more firmly.

‘And after that we’ll both have at you again, I expect. Or maybe I’ll fist you.. it’s been a little while, hasn’t it? It’s probably time.’

Crowley’s cock has not been touched. He comes anyway, between the words and the pounding inside him; crying out, wordless. His blood pounds in his ears.

The next few seconds are frantic with sex, panting, groaning, urgent. Shockwaves of pleasure that is almost pain jerking tears from him now he has come, and is sensitive, and is still being fucked. Aziraphale’s hands leaving fingerprint bruises on his hips and his wrists, making him stay there, and take it, and yes, yes, he likes it. It hurts but oh. Angel. Master. _Darling._

He’s babbling, he realises, spilling out honesty.

‘Hurt me, use me, use me more..’

The other voices have fallen quiet, listening, enjoying his insanity. ‘I’ll be good.. I will, I will, oh _fuck._ ’

He’s spasming, coming again, and there’s nothing there and it hurts and everything goes white for a moment, in the dark behind his closed eyelids and the blindfold, there where he’s held tight. Safe, and can’t hurt himself by trying to thrash about, limbs no longer under his control, too much, too much..

More seconds slip away before he realises Aziraphale has come too, sitting back with an effort, letting Crowley slump to the floor.

‘You can let his arms go now, I think.’

‘Yes of course. Should we..?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Crowley is already stirring, a distinct, dopey smile on his face. The one usually preceded by the words _We are definitely doing that again_.

‘See? I told you he was a tart.’

‘Am not.’ Crowley contradicts, high and bold on endorphins. ‘Tarts get paid.’

‘Desk?’ The duplicate suggests.  
  
‘You’re bloody insatiable.’ Crowley says, still bold.  
  
‘That's enough from you.’ Aziraphale says firmly. He can feel again that reluctance to stop. The avatar’s awareness that he might not have long. That he is a part of the angel, and will be pulled back into him. Unable to act independently, and have Crowley quite like this.  
  
And technically of course, they could go again at once. There’s no real reason for a being such as himself – or any of them - to have a refractory period. It’s just that Aziraphale has always rather enjoyed that pleasant lassitude, and has never seen a reason to dispense with it.  
  
‘Do you really want to, so soon?' He asks. 'Wouldn’t you rather.. linger over this?’  
  
Cautiously, as if he expects to be told to stop, the other him reaches for Crowley’s wrists and unfolds his fingers for answer. Strokes between them, cradles them, as if they were something precious. Sets them down again and trails fingers across Crowley’s hairline, down over the small tattoo that isn’t really a tattoo at all, and along his jaw, as if he’s memorising how Crowley feels under his fingers.  
  
No, Aziraphale realises. Not as if. That is exactly what he is doing. He’s memorising Crowley.  
  
Oh dear Lord. He’s smitten.  
  
‘Angel.’ Crowley mutters, stirring, confused by the sudden change of pace.  
  
‘Wrong one.’ The avatar says. ‘But I was invited to linger. Although..’ He looks down the length of Crowley’s body to address Aziraphale. ‘That’s long enough don’t you think?’  
  
They have not taken more than ten minutes to draw breath, but Aziraphale barely hesitates. ‘Yes. I think perhaps it is.’  
  
Crowley only groans as they lift him between them and drape him fully over the desk, the width of it miraculously shrinking so that he is perfectly positioned to be spitted between them.  
  
Aziraphale has not interfered with the demon’s corporation (only his own). Crowley is still sensitive and lethargic from his recent orgasm. Shudders as the other brackets his hips and pushes greedily into that well-slicked hole, and again as Aziraphale’s cock is fed into his waiting mouth.  
  
‘Here.’ Aziraphale unwinds the blindfold, revealing pink cheeks flushed with heat, eyes wide and adoring and just this side of frantic. Crowley's tongue moves clumsily, probably because he's already being slammed into from behind, body jerking with the force of it, driving helpless sounds from his throat - which vibrate rather pleasingly up into his mouth, although not nearly intensely enough.  
  
‘You're going to have to do better than that.’ Aziraphale tells him. But he does pull all the way out again, brushing those pink, wet lips with his cock, to ask him if there’s something he wanted to say.

He makes it teasing, almost cruel, but really it’s a last chance. Once he is fucking Crowley’s mouth in earnest, it won’t be possible to speak.  
  
Crowley shakes his head. He feels filthy, utterly used up, but he can take more. He will take more.  
  
So it begins. At first the push and pull and skewering of himself between them is too difficult, bewildering, messy, and Crowley finds himself gasping, throat contracting, losing focus. They’re not in time with each other, and he is still very tender. He struggles to find a rhythm, is impelled onto Aziraphale’s cock even deeper than the angel intends, barely catches himself, and chokes.  
  
Aziraphale slaps him on the cheek, gently, just to bring him back a bit, and he does better. Doesn’t try to be clever, just sucks gently, pushed back and forth, lets them work a tempo out that suits them both, with him in the middle, just welcoming it, letting it happen to him. Stifling his own reactions.  
  
The other Aziraphale is finished first, rests himself against the edge of the desk, seemingly exhausted, but with enough composure left to plug Crowley up with three fingers. Fingers that Crowley is pressed back onto each time Aziraphale fucks into his mouth, expecting more attention now, the tender warmth of Crowley’s tongue playing over him as he withdraws, and a hunger as he pushes in.  
  
Crowley can feel the wetness of himself as he’s pushed back, the flare of sensation – it’s too good to be pain – from his arse as he takes the other’s fingers in to the knuckles. His mouth is full too, heavy with the taste and weight of Aziraphale across his tongue, the palm pressed to the back of his head, guiding him to take it deeper while Aziraphale looks down, exulting as he accepts it, hips snapping faster now, eyes locked on Crowley’s own, wide and dazed and golden meeting joyous blue. Clouding as his climax hits, closing in ecstasy, and opening to find Crowley’s eyes have closed too, throat working like the lewd little snake he is.  
  
Still shuddering with shocks as the other Aziraphale presses his fingers deeper, cocks them, works in and out.  
  
His face is lovely, a picture, as he’s fucked again on the avatar’s hand. Aziraphale can enjoy both if he concentrates, fingers pressing and pulsing ever deeper into that wet, suffering stretched-out hole, and the way Crowley pants, the fluttering of his eyelids, the tracks that tears are making down his cheeks, the way his face opens, eyes wide, gasping, unseeing, bound hands clutching at the underside of the desk, trying to arch into it, away from it.  
  
‘That’s right.’ Aziraphale encourages him. Encourages them both.  
  
‘More?’ The avatar asks.  
  
‘More.’ The angel answers.  
  
Crowley sobs, doesn’t argue, takes more. Hurts so good. _So_ good.  
  
When they’re done, and they roll him over after, he’s hard as a rock.  
  
‘May I?’ The other Aziraphale asks.  
  
‘Please do.’ And swiftly, with a very practiced hand, Crowley is got off.  
  
Afterwards he seems to have passed out. Certainly he doesn’t seem able to move or speak. His half lidded eyes are unfocussed, and his breathing still harsh.  
  
‘I want to kiss him.’ The avatar says, drawing Aziraphale away so that Crowley can't hear them. ‘But I don't think I should. It might break the spell for him'  
  
He squares his shoulders. 'Speaking of which..’  
  
‘Yes of course.’ Aziraphale says, and snaps his fingers. It’s much easier to end an enchantment than to begin it. The other Aziraphale disappears at once, leaving just the faintest trace of wistfulness and delirious, disbelieving satisfaction to be absorbed into his own.  
  
‘If there's a next time.' Aziraphale promises it. 'I’ll let you kiss him then. He’ll be ready again by then.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to spoiler for this by putting it in the header, but credit for the intriguing idea of Aziraphale making another version of himself is with the OP - it was one of the +1 suggestions in the original prompt,


	12. An Opening Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

Somehow another week almost slips away. It seem to pass quicker that the others. Almost has the feeling of a holiday, Aziraphale thinks, if a holiday were something he was in the habit of taking. Most days he has Crowley out, on his knees or over the desk or – just once – tied to a plush armchair in the snug. On others he’s managed some sort of sex – some sort of interference – without taking Crowley from the cage.  
  
Crowley has fallen out of the habit of talking again, but he seems – content, if that’s the word. That is to say, he doesn’t seem uneasy or claustrophobic, even on the days Aziraphale enchants the rope to snake in through the bars and twine around his wrists and thighs, until his forearms are fully wrapped and tethered between his legs, and Aziraphale can just reach in and lift him out with one hand.  
  
Or the days when he’s pulled back to the bars, thighs together this time, since (courtesy of Crowley’s skinniness and the offset of his hips) that still leaves a nice snug tunnel for Aziraphale to make slick with oil and have his way with.  
  
Or the times he’s left like that, the blanket draped back over, enclosing him in this strange cocoon of shadows and sex-smell and neglect, while Aziraphale returns happily to his book.  
  
Aziraphale wonders what he thinks about, in there, but doesn’t quite like to ask.  
  
In truth Crowley isn’t thinking. He doesn’t want or need to think. Instead his head is light and fuzzy and his body aroused but not enough to feel troubled that his arousal came to nothing again.  
  
Only an oil slick on his inner thighs, and a shivery sense of possession, and that’s fine. Better than fine. He trusts Aziraphale to look after him, doesn’t need to listen out. Is only subconsciously aware of where in the flat the angel is right now.  
  
Crowley may fall asleep at some point, still bound up on his side. Surfacing from dreams or a daze when Aziraphale begins handling him again, squeezing Crowley’s buttocks, pressing them apart, sliding between his thighs, panting and clutching at the cage to get leverage, and disappearing once he has satisfied himself.  
  
Crowley doesn’t wonder at it. It’s what he’s here for.  
  
He stretches his upper body – the bits of him not tied up – and yawns. He isn’t tired – he’s barely moved in days – but the position and the warmth and the dim light and Aziraphale all conspire to make him drowsy without actually making him sleep.  
  
So he dreams or dozes some more. Time doesn’t seem to mean anything here.  
  
It’s full light though when he’s woken from it. A change that starts as a tingle in his loins, under his balls and running up and out, almost unnoticed, part of his reverie at first. And then his eyes fly open to find the sun is bright now, and that Aziraphale has stripped the blanket away the better to inspect his handiwork, the smooth receding of Crowley’s cock into something smaller, flesh around it shivering and breaking into waves that Crowley can feel but not see as they slip past one another and settle.  
  
Inside him is a dull heat, another opening out. A lurch of the stomach – a visceral reaction to the suddenness of change.  
  
Aziraphale doesn’t bother with breasts. Has never really understood the preoccupation with mammary glands. Perhaps, he speculates, because he never was a child, never weaned away from that comfort, and therefore cannot miss it. Or possibly there is something else about it he is missing.  
  
Anyway he likes Crowley’s chest as it is, the light fuzz that glows flame red as his hair, the hard, ruddy little buds of his nipples.  
  
It’s still tight between Crowley’s legs, all muscle and freckles. Only his vulva is soft, fleshy and increasingly wet as Aziraphale fingers it, rubbing circles gently around the clitoris, the mound of muscle under his thumb warm and full between Crowley's legs. Stroking and coaxing until Crowley squirms for more.  
  
Frustration is more diffuse like this. An itch less urgent but longer lasting.  
  
Crowley is ready. So ready. He tries to squeeze, to clench down as Aziraphale has him the same way as before, between the thighs. His cock stroking now along the folds of Crowley’s labia, still teasing, enjoying how wet Crowley is for him, smearing over his thighs.  
  
‘Lovely.’ He murmurs. ‘Like velvet.’  
  
Crowley is bearing down on nothing as Aziraphale takes him fast, and hard, and not at all where he needs it. Bites his lip to stifle his disappointment as Aziraphale comes without penetrating him once, even with his fingers.  
  
And is gone.

The tethers drop and slip away as the blanket descends again.  
  
Crowley squirms into the middle of the cage and squeezes his legs close together in a futile effort to sate himself. What he wants is to hump his hand or one of the cushions, stoke up what the angel started. But although misbehaving might get him the promised spanking, he doesn’t like the thought of the angel’s disappointment.  
  
He rubs his cheek against the cushion instead and tries to think of nothing. Just his breathing and the scratchy sound of a fountain pen. Aziraphale taking notes, probably.  
  
He’s ticklish, which is, of course, their combined fluids leaking down the curve of his thigh and catching in the sparse hairs. It would have been nice to have been cleaned up a bit, but he can tell Aziraphale is getting into it now. More confident. Not as worried about being nice.  
  
Not worried about Crowley's pleasure when he comes back an indeterminate time later, blindfolds him and cuffs his wrists behind his back to make him all the more vulnerable. Then presses him against the wall and slides into him in one movement, without foreplay or preliminaries.  
  
‘Rather convenient.’ He murmurs, taking a fistful of Crowley’s hair and pulling his head back to bite kisses into his throat. Crowley says nothing. He’s just that little bit taller than Aziraphale, but his ankles have been pushed wide apart to accommodate that. It’s not a very stable position, with his hands tethered in the small of his back, his hips thrust forward, but Aziraphale’s flattens his palms to brace against the wall and Crowley can't fall. Is crowded, trapped between, can hear the angel panting, feel the warm breath against his throat.  
  
‘You make such a pretty plaything.’ He says, and Crowley finds he’s glowing, ashamed and aroused. Trying to tilt his pelvis, to get more of Aziraphale as he's fucked, quickly and efficiently. Trying to scratch as much of the itch as he can.  
  
He slumps back against the wall when Aziraphale is finished, a soft, unsatisfied moan escaping his lips.  
  
‘None of that.’ Aziraphale tells him. Reinforcing the words with a little tap on Crowley’s bottom as a warning to behave. Slightly more severe because he's tempted to be soft. To take Crowley to bed and kiss him. Slip the blindfold free and look in the demon’s eyes while ecstasy floods through him. Bask in having given him that gift.  
  
But he can't. It would be impossible to pretend that Crowley is a prisoner, a convenience, after that, and Aziraphale isn't ready to end the game yet. He’s becoming far too accustomed to having Crowley on tap.  
  
Spoilt enough to deny Crowley his pleasure because he can't take it the way Aziraphale wants. Spoilt enough to have Crowley kneel by his chair while Aziraphale reads, wrists tethered back now to his ankles, a rough leash made from rope tied so it won’t tighten, so that Aziraphale can reach and stroke through his hair, can pull him closer with a tug on the loop around his neck, can spread the wings of his robe out when ready and press Crowley’s mouth down on him, forcing him to kiss his thighs and belly, to tongue his cock and his balls, feeling his way, still blindfolded.  
  
‘Come on. I know you want it. Show me what a good boy you can be.’  
  
‘Don’t.’ Crowley says. The first word for days. ‘Don’t want it.’  
  
‘That’s unfortunate.’ Aziraphale says lightly, pushing his thumb into Crowley’s mouth, his other hand still pulling on the rope halter, making sure the demon understands that he can’t get away.  
  
Crowley sucks automatically, fellates it, even.  
  
‘But you can be reasonable, can’t you Crowley?’ Aziraphale says. ‘You can accept the inevitable.’  
  
Crowley nods, defeated, as Aziraphale’s thumb slips free and is replaced with his cock.  
  
‘You make a lovely pet too.’ Aziraphale says. Afterwards, when Crowley has been made to drool and swallow and his head is resting on Aziraphale’s bare knee. ‘It’s something of a dilemma don’t you think? If you misbehave you must, of course, be kept here to be punished, but when you behave so nicely why would I ever want to release you?’  
  
He sighs. ‘It’s late. And these are questions for another day. I should put you to bed for the night.’  
  
By which he means, of course, the cage.


	13. A Summer Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

‘Let’s spread you out.’ Aziraphale is back in his normal clothes, having popped out for breakfast again this morning, Crowley is, of course, still naked. The weather has turned sultry these last few days, working up to a summer storm, perhaps, and Crowley’s skin is silky, just the slightest hint of sweat as Aziraphale presses his thighs apart, tethering them loosely to the feet of the table, his back arched over the top, his wrists, again apart, tied to the other legs.  
  
His clitoris is smooth and slippery and strangely evasive under Aziraphale’s stroking fingers, but his head arches back, his hips shift minutely off the table.  
  
‘Shameless.’ Aziraphale says fondly, pressing his fingers briefly inside just to have more moisture to tease out, to glide around and over Crowley’s clit, until he’s pushing up hard into the angel’s touch, wanting more. ‘Quite, quite wanton, aren’t you?’  
  
‘Hmm.’  
  
Aziraphale crooks his fingers in a way both cruel and deliciously inflaming.  
  
‘Say it again?’  
  
‘Yes.’ Crowley remembers himself. ‘Yes. Wanton. Totally shameless.’  
  
‘Sinful. Depraved, even.’  
  
‘s my job. Tempter. Wicked.’ Crowley probably couldn’t string a sentence together if he wanted to. Aziraphale knows just how to touch him, and is still observing, learning, as Crowley bites his lip and offers his throat and likes it. Moans with satisfaction as Aziraphale presses three thick fingers into him and crooks them again.  
  
‘I should punish you for that, you know.’  
  
Crowley doesn’t – can’t – answer. Only moan and shudder and come, gasping, clenched around Aziraphale’s fingers.  
  
Afterwards Aziraphale takes a spotless white linen square from a top pocket and wipes them, considering the problem of the demon laid out bare for him.  
  
‘Or perhaps I should give you what you want.’ He suggests. ‘Until you’re gorged on it. Couldn’t bear another moment of it. Beseech me to stop.’  
  
Crowley feels the words rather than hears them. They make the something that’s still simmering gently inside spread its heat out through his belly, down between his legs.  
  
It only smoulders hotter when Aziraphale takes the long length of a vibrator from one of the drawers this desk never used to have and rubs it against Crowley’s clit in small circular movements, as if anointing it or doing a spell, brow creased in concentration.  
  
Gentle pulses at first, and Crowley's head falls back again with a moan as it strokes into him, angled to still stimulate his clitoris, then slips and straightens and shivers inside, deep and thick; and more than half of why Crowley is already coming apart again is probably in his head, in the way Aziraphale is looking at him, in the way he’s been starved of orgasm but not sex, in the fact he’s tied up.  
  
But whatever the reason, here he is, shockwaves of pleasure making him arc up and cry out. Then moan, unashamedly eager as Aziraphale pulls the now gleaming length of the toy out, rubs it over Crowley’s clit again. He’s sensitised, trembling, but he still wants more.  
  
Aziraphale gives him more.  
  
‘That was number three wasn’t it?’ Aziraphale says coolly, after.  
  
Crowley is panting, glad of the solidity of the desk beneath him. His limbs feel like water, his hips twitching, the tethers stopping him from moving too far. His heart is thudding loud enough that he can hear it, can feel his pulse as a counterpoint as the vibrator slips in and out, in and out, slick and fast, rubs lengthways against his clit, as one of Aziraphale’s fingers find that wetness and press down deeper between Crowley’s thighs and into his anus just as his clit is..  
  
‘Fuck.’  
  
‘Language Crowley.’ Aziraphale says smugly, straightening up. ‘Number four, I believe.’  
  
They’re coming quicker now. Building on one another. Crowley can’t get down from whatever height his arousal has been jacked up to. Aziraphale barely has to work for five, or six, or seven, and Crowley is in bits. In tears. Thighs trying to jerk together, to close and hide and protect himself.  
  
‘You only have yourself to blame for this you know.’ Aziraphale sinks the vibrator inside him and abandons it for a moment, just the flared base of the thing still sticking out. He presses down on Crowley’s thighs instead, one heavy hand on each. ‘You flaunt yourself, don’t you my dear? Flick your hair and flash those beautiful eyes. Shimmy your hips? You should be pleased it’s worked so well.’  
  
‘Angel..’ Crowley says breathlessly. ‘Please, I can’t.’  
  
‘Begging already?’ Aziraphale smiles, resumes a slow plunge in and out of Crowley’s body. ‘You’re rather soft, for a fiend, don’t you think?’  
  
Crowley’s answer is wordless, whimpering, just on and on for a full minute. Then howling as Aziraphale brings him off an eighth time.  
  
‘No more. No.. no more, angel please.’  
  
‘So sweet. I could watch you for hours.’  
  
‘Fuck.’ Crowley’s body clenches, throbs, likes the idea. Crowley sobs.  
  
‘But I can be merciful, I suppose. Two more will make the point sufficiently.’ He smiles. That bastard smile. ‘And then I can have my wicked way with you.’  
  
Nine _hurts_. Crowley feels swollen, nerve endings on fire, tears running down in a steady stream, stammers out some garbled nonsense of a plea that even now, in this extremis, he knows and hopes isn’t anything like what he needs to say to make it stop, thrashes uselessly in his tethers, glad to have something to thrash against, to lose control, to beg and howl and come back to himself to find Aziraphale’s hand, grounding and warm, on his thigh, Aziraphale’s voice saying ‘Just one more.’  
  
Crowley swears right the way through this one and out the other side, shuddering.  
  
And then it’s gone. And he’s sopping, wide open and empty as Aziraphale strips himself from the waist down and moves close between his trembling legs, slips so easily in through those folds. No defence from anything.  
  
‘There.’ He says, quiet and satisfied. Crowley moans, but it’s a softer sound this time.  
  
This is still too much, but it doesn’t hurt. Aziraphale is touching him, hands stroking all the skin he can reach as he takes Crowley so, so tenderly.  
  
_This moment right here._ Crowley thinks a little hysterically. _This is where I’d fall in love with my kidnapper._  
  
Or maybe after, when Aziraphale cleans him up the old fashioned way, sponging off the mess of tears and natural lubrication and cum. Combs fingers through Crowley’s hair, dries the fresh tears his gentleness provokes.  
  
Even gives him a taste of the brandy. Just a half inch of amber liquid in the bottom of the glass before he’s packed away again, shivering despite the heat of the room.


	14. Chastisement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

Aziraphale is having a little snooze in the snug, doors open so he can hear Crowley if he needs to. He remembers this block going up, all curved lines and green-and-cream tiling, but this room is cosy with leather chairs and amber-shaded lamps. There’s even a television in a walnut cabinet – the old fashioned sort with the dial - and a brass and bakelite drinks trolley that Crowley purchased back when knowing how to mix a decent cocktail was de rigueur for the demon about town.  
  
There’s a bedroom too, but Aziraphale can see no point in a bed without Crowley in it.  
  
He’s been feeling a little cranky today. Missing Crowley’s snark and swagger and frankly terrifying capacity for alcohol. He’s found himself composing conversations in his head, asking about Manhattans or whether a television set that old should be able to pick up all the channels it does.  
  
Humans are lovely (he’s had breakfast out twice this week, and lunch once) but it’s not the same. Curious how he’s got so used to Crowley’s company this past year – he’d gone decades without seeing him before the apocalypse, but things are different now.  
  
He’d hoped a nap would set him to rights, but he wakes up still – just a bit – cross. Irritable in a way he hasn’t been since this thing started. Crowley’s vulnerability has made Aziraphale more protective, even of himself, and his original plans to 'punish' the demon have slipped back. He was never in the mood.  
  
Well, he is in the mood now. Not angry, not anything that might lead him to be excessive, just - Crowley got him into this, Crowley can take the consequences. That sort of a mood.  
  
Crowley is already, conveniently, awake, takes the handcuffs through the bars of the cage and puts them on when he’s told to, having learnt early on that Aziraphale won’t let him out until he does. He bends just as easily over the desk, only querying anything after he’s tied up – legs spread and bound – and Aziraphale sets the flogger and paddle on the marble surface next to him, just visible if Crowley turns his head.  
  
‘But I haven’t done anything wrong.’ It’s perfectly true, Aziraphale was thinking so just this morning. It’s also not the point.  
  
The angel lets his voice become playful. ‘Do you mean to deny, fiend, that you have been tempting me to lustful thoughts for millennia?’  
  
‘’m not denying anything.’  
  
‘You’d better not.’  
  
Crowley is quiet after that, and Aziraphale lets himself linger, admiring the feast before him, Crowley’s bottom, pert and firm, the thighs which provide such an attractive frame to everything sensitive and private and very exposed right now.  
  
Aziraphale can’t help sinking a finger into the quick of him, startled again by how easy it is to access Crowley’s body like this. On the whole, though, he does still prefer Crowley in his male form – there’s something very satisfying about having a good handful of Crowley, and there’s not an inch of give on him anywhere else to squeeze.  
  
‘It’s not all my fault, you know.’ Crowley says, wiggling his hips to get more comfortable as a second finger joins the first.  
  
‘It most certainly is your fault. I’m the good one.’  
  
‘Should I think on my sins as you beat me?’ There’s that snark Aziraphale has missed, and he has to fight to keep the warmth out of his voice.  
  
‘I’m not trying to reform you, demon.’ He says, as coldly as he can manage. ‘It will be enough to submit.’  
  
He starts with the paddle, and Crowley, brattish, begins by insisting it doesn’t hurt, and ends trying to push up into it. Rubbing his cheek against his arm in the way he rubs against the weave of Aziraphale’s trousers when he’s on his knees, with Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair. Aziraphale isn’t sure he knows he does it, but it seems to be seeking something, and Aziraphale sets down the paddle to stroke softly up his back.  
  
‘Didn’t hurt.’ Crowley says, for the second time, as Aziraphale moves to run hands back over Crowley’s buttocks, pressing gently on the light, just-purpling bruises down his thighs and over his bottom and hips, all that lovely skin that Aziraphale was admiring.  
  
‘Then I shall have to try harder.’  
  
The flogger makes Crowley flinch. Or rather, he allows himself to flinch, just as he allows tears to gather in his eyes, to run down his cheeks. No need to be brave as Aziraphale lays pink stripes where he’s already tender, almost to the back of his knees, and then criss-crosses back up again.  
  
Fingers in his cunt come out wet and Aziraphale sighs.  
  
‘You’re enjoying this far too much.’ He says, and Crowley lets out a teary, broken little laugh as Aziraphale cups the cheeks of his bottom, thumbs pushing them apart, and one teases around his anus gently, slick, pressing in and then joining it with the other, opening him up as though he were splitting a peach in two. It smarts, and Crowley makes another helpless noise as he’s made ready for Aziraphale to bugger him, and another as he pushes snugly in with two eager thrusts.  
  
When he’s finished, he’s no longer cross, takes Crowley by the hand and leads him into the snug to curl up with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, still handcuffed while the angel strokes his hair.  
  
The stripes are sore, but they’ll be gone in a day or two, and the angel is indulgent, slipping him more sweet stuff, and a drop or two of alcohol. Crowley closes his eyes and let the warmth wrap around him, and deliberately thinks of nothing at all.

Of course he falls asleep. Aziraphale knows he shouldn’t be encouraging it. That this scenario dictates that he should have Crowley back in his box by now, but he doesn’t want to. The book he was reading before he fell asleep himself is in easy reach, and Crowley looks so peaceful; and when he wakes, a few hours later, he slips sleepily to his knees with gentle encouragement, ready for Aziraphale to take his mouth again.  
  
Bound hands resting on his thighs out of the way, hair loose and messy from Aziraphale’s fingers stroking through it while he read, falling in his eyes until Aziraphale pushes it back for him, sneaking a kiss there too, and Crowley smiles, strangely shy, and then dips his head in obedience to the gentle pressure of Aziraphale’s hand, and parts his lips.  
  
Aziraphale rogers his mouth in a leisurely way, letting it build slowly, until Crowley is drooling, his lashes fluttering against his cheek, his tongue soft and stroking.  
  
He swallows, sits quiet as Aziraphale mops his lips and chin with a handkerchief, pops another small sweet in his mouth, and helps him to his feet to lock him up again.  
  
The bruises are purpling now, more ugly than painful. Aziraphale would miracle them away, if he didn’t know that Crowley preferred him not to. Hadn’t caught him in his bedroom more than once inspecting similar bruises in the long mirror of the wardrobe, pressing fingers into them to feel the blunt pain of pressure on them, because, as he had said, he liked being marked. Liked knowing the angel put them there.  
  
_‘Oh my dear.’_ Aziraphale had said, very sleek and white and beige.  
  
So he waits for them to heal the old fashioned way, paling to almost invisible over days, while Aziraphale intersperses a reread of Victor Hugo’s _La Legende des Siecles_ with Crowley, warm and pliant and ready for more, again, whenever Aziraphale is.


	15. Clause 12e

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

_I, the demon Crowley, being of sound mind, do here, for the period of time for which this contract signifies, give unto the angel Aziraphale the freedom of my body, so that he may imprison and take his pleasure of me as he wishes, without reference to myself, and at his own discretion.  
  
This contract being in force for no less a time than one day and remaining in force until either I or the angel Aziraphale should take the step needed to dissolve it.  
  
Further I agree to submit to those practices upon my body which I have approved with my mark below,  
  
and further I agree that no restraint will be put upon me which would prevent my taking the step needed to dissolve the contract should I so wish,  
  
and further I agree to employ no powers which are not inherent to my human body for the duration of this contract.._  
  
Aziraphale had been the one to draft the document of course, which is why it is so absurdly detailed that Crowley had looked over the top of his glasses when he first read it and asked whether fellatio and irrumatio weren’t, surely, the same thing.  
  
_‘No. they are similar things, admittedly, but not the same.’_  
  
_‘Nobody calls it a quim these days either, you know.’_  
  
_I prefer the word. It sounds.. kindlier. Less objectifying.’_  
  
The truth is Aziraphale had enjoyed writing the contract out in longhand. Devising such clauses as: _Restraint, whether by shackles and bindings or bars and locks, which I undertake to submit to for no less than one day, and thereafter until this contract is dissolved._ or _Buggery, which I undertake to submit to as frequently or infrequently as the angel Aziraphale requires of me_  
  
All the way down to Clause 12e: _and further I agree to submit to these practices to any avatar or avatars of himself produced by the angel Aziraphale for the purpose of so acting upon me, whether said avatars are acting consecutively or in concert,_  
  
It’s easier to pull another, lesser, Aziraphale out of the ether this time, dressed in a frankly rococo dressing gown of black and white silk with a wide red sash to gather it in at the waist.  
  
‘Hello.’ Aziraphale begins, until he realises that he’s about to explain, and there’s really no need to explain anything to a part of himself. ‘Shall we?’  
  
‘Thank you.’ The avatar murmurs as Aziraphale gestures for him to lead the way.  
  
Crowley has been blindfolded and handcuffed for over an hour now, his legs bound from ankle to knee in a fashion reminiscent of a mermaid’s tail. A type of bondage Aziraphale had never tried before, but has decided he’d quite like to try again, with Crowley’s head in his lap, and a gag probably, once that is something it’s safe to use. The sort of gag that stops him talking but doesn’t prevent Aziraphale..  
  
..well, those are thoughts for another time.  
  
Crowley raises his head as the bolt is pushed back and the lid of the cage raised. It’s wood, because Aziraphale wanted to bugger him over it just a day ago, and he’s thinking of making some of the walls of the thing wood too, or at least wood-lined, to enclose Crowley more completely.  
  
He’s thought about lining it with velvet too, like a jewellery box, like Crowley is a prized possession. Has thought about collars with rhinestones and padded wrist cuffs and long silk stockings with red ribbon garters..  
  
Also thoughts for another time. Probably next time (he is reasonably optimistic that there will be a next time). For now they lift him out between him and unlock the handcuffs just long enough to fasten them around one of the cage bars. He resists, briefly, but they each take one wrist and the matter is resolved in seconds.  
  
‘You can untie his legs, if you like.’ Aziraphale offers, sitting back to watch as his avatar unravels the net of rope, winds it into a neat coil.  
  
They prise his legs apart between them. Again Crowley tries (or pretends to try) to prevent it, and again he isn’t strong enough.  
  
‘What’s going through that funny demon head of yours?’ Aziraphale asks. ‘Do you want to be forced?’  
  
He doesn’t wait for an answer before inviting the other Aziraphale to start them off, hands wrapping around Crowley’s thighs to push them further back, draping the skirts of his robe to afford some privacy while he fucks Crowley in steady strokes.  
  
‘Look how you take it.’ Aziraphale mutters obscenely into Crowley’s ear. ‘That could be anyone.’ and Crowley knows it isn’t, can’t be, but his skin heats with shame anyway, with the possibility that it could be, that the man between his legs could be any random human that Aziraphale had decided to share him with. Maybe even someone he didn’t know that well. Some bloke he’d picked up (Crowley can almost hear the angel saying it.. _‘Come home with me, I’ve got something rather special indoors..’_ The way he invites Crowley to share a bottle of the ‘56 Armagnac).  
  
As usual the other him wants Crowley again almost immediately, and Aziraphale helps to pull Crowley’s knees up higher as he’s prepped, lets a little of the feeling from his avatar wash over him. Lust and satisfaction spiced with the craving for more.  
  
He wonders what it would be like with three, or four. He could sit and watch and feel what they feel, as they took Crowley one after another and then, perhaps, if they were as greedy as this one, simply start over again.  
  
He puts that thought away to suggest later too. When Crowley’s not so.. is dazzled the word? Arching his back as his arse is breached, lips parting wordlessly, riding it as the avatar takes him faster, and pleasure forces cries from Crowley’s throat, and the avatar's thoughts grow hot and confused and possessive and Aziraphale has to stop following too closely lest the swirl of the other’s arousal pull him over the edge as well.  
  
Aziraphale makes his erection slick and takes his place, pushing Crowley’s knees back again as they slide down, rucking up the blanket. He buggers Crowley too, cleaning himself and his duplicate off with a snap of the fingers afterwards, and pulling Crowley over onto his side, settling himself to lay beside him, draping one of Crowley’s thighs up over his hip.  
  
The other Aziraphale moves snugly behind the demon, discarding his robe, and then they’re moving in concert, pushing in together, filling both of Crowley’s holes, and somehow Aziraphale knows Crowley’s eyes are wide behind the blindfold as they take turns to slide in and out, getting him used to the sensation of being so full.  
  
And then Aziraphale kisses him, with tongue, and Crowley sinks under it, melts, lips growing lax and tongue sloppy as his arse is slowly but thoroughly fucked, the avatar making greedy little sounds, as though he’s eating some wonderful treat, forgetting or not able to care right now that he’s giving away his identity as surely as if he’d spoken.  
  
Assuming Crowley can think at all, as Aziraphale takes one last little kiss and starts to move his hips as well, a steady bass beat to the other’s presto – he can feel the power of it through Crowley, a piston, shuddering his hips, and it is ridiculous to feel jealous of oneself, even a part of oneself, but Aziraphale comes rather too close to it as Crowley’s jaw goes slack and pleading and his hips jerk independently of either of them, almost pulling himself free of Aziraphale’s hands as he comes.  
  
The avatar is mere seconds behind, and Aziraphale is moving more quickly himself, spurred on by the feel of Crowley coming around him, the look of helpless bliss on his face. The demon is still sandwiched between them, and the other is pulling his hair gently in the way he knows Crowley likes, and telling him what a slut he is, which Crowley is not in a position to deny, moaning lushly as Aziraphale screws him back into his other self and comes as deep inside him as he can blessed well get. Visited by some absurd need to claim his demon, as if Crowley hadn’t always been his.  
  
The spasm of jealousy dissolves in the post coital lassitude, and he feels nothing but vicarious pleasure as the avatar rolls Crowley onto his back and kisses him hungrily, almost aggressively, and Crowley’s knees fall together as if to hide everything they’ve just done, his lips parting beneath the other's mouth.  
  
He does not resist as they undo the handcuffs to unweave them from the cage and make him sit up to fasten them again. This time behind his back.

Still sensitive, Crowley shivers as his labia tighten and soften and swell at the base, as something closes up inside him, warm but somehow unsettling, as a frisson of power rolls over him, cleaning him inside and out. As his cock – spent, unsurprisingly, given how utterly shagged out he is, shapes itself lolling against his thigh. He flinches minutely as someone takes a hold of it, just lightly, rolling it between finger and thumb, as one might a cigar, just easing back the foreskin to see the head of it, then letting it hide again.  
  
Crowley is already panting, hasn’t really stopped, and there’s a hand in his hair, and another on his shoulder, pulling him to his feet, walking him.. oh, to the snug little room that he knows is not so secretly Aziraphale’s favourite.  
  
Nor is he surprised to find himself on his knees, a cushion between him and the rug, a pair of plump thighs around him and fingers in his hair.  
  
‘What shall we read?’ A voice - the same voice - from the doorway, or just inside it, maybe.  
  
‘Oh more poetry, don’t you think?’  
  
They choose _Sonnets from the Portuguese_ , read out loud supposedly to amuse one another, but Crowley knows it’s not just that, really. That they’ve chosen love poetry on purpose.  
  
This is cheating, definitely, but he can’t be bothered to call Aziraphale out on it. Doesn’t even say anything about how he’s being kissed as he’s passed between them, the steady rolling cadence of Aziraphale’s voice – he has no idea which is which – constant but not always making sense to him as his mouth is filled with an erection, or fingers, or a tongue, flooded with cum or gently spoiled with sweets and good brandy.  
  
Or as he’s pulled across two laps to be petted and fingered open again, the length of his cock stroked, lubricated, and left aching, a long line of want thrusting up into emptiness.  
  
‘Please..’  
  
‘No darling, I don’t think so.’ And they push him down to his knees again, to blow each of them in turn.  
  
Utter, utter bastards, but Crowley can’t resent it. It’s part of what he loves about his angel, about this.  
  
Time is slipping away, stretching out, in the dark space behind the blindfold. He loses track and just lets himself be teased and denied again, passed back and forth, head starting to nod as he grows more tired, until eventually they let him fall asleep on the couch for the second time this week.


	16. Lazy Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

He wakes in the cage, with the vaguest memories of being picked up in strong arms; of bolts sliding free and keys turning in locks and a cushion under his head. Some sort of drug or just sheer exhaustion, he’s not sure.  
  
There is only one Aziraphale in the room now, apparently reading newspapers. So either the angel has been out, Crowley deduces, or he has begun getting them delivered. And if he has been out then Crowley will not have been drugged.  
  
Anyway he doesn’t feel like he was drugged. His head is clear – remarkably so, in fact. All shiny links of thought instead of the slow undertow and buzz of nothing he’d been enjoying before.  
  
For example, he's noticed that it’s a big newspaper with supplements – and worked out that this must mean it's Sunday.  
  
He’s a lot less sure which Sunday. Is fairly certain he’s reckoning in weeks not months, but can’t be much more definite than that. It could be three weeks or six.  
  
‘Hello, when did you wake up?’  
  
Aziraphale has noticed him. Bends down to smile and crook a finger through the bars. Crowley considers swiping at it and protesting that he’s not a pet, but finds he’s smiling back before he can gather the outrage together.  
  
‘Cheating, angel.’  
  
‘I know.’ The angel settles himself cross-legged on the blanket, the better to talk. ‘But it is extraordinarily difficult not to show affection sometimes. And harder the longer we go on.’  
  
His finger is still poking into the cage, so Crowley leans forward and sucks it briefly. Aziraphale’s eyes flutter closed.

Crowley’s smile has turned smug by the time he pulls off again.  
  
‘Naughty.’ Aziraphale says, and taps his nose, which he can just reach to do. He fidgets afterwards with the hem of his waistcoat, pointedly ignoring the bulge that has started to spoil the line of his trousers. Something on his mind, then.  
  
‘It’s not that I want to stop, exactly.' He explains. 'But there’s nothing like dinner in a restaurant with proper table linen, and there’s a marvellous exhibition about Tudor spies opening soon. I rather hoped we could go to the preview together.’  
  
‘Reminisce about old times?’  
  
‘Well, see if there are any names we recognise, anyway.’  
  
‘Never really went in for all that court intrigue to be honest. And you were far more interested in the theatre if I remember rightly.’  
  
‘Well.' Aziraphale considers the point. 'Really you know that was where all the invention was. Politics hadn’t moved on for centuries.’  
  
‘One ruler, big battle, bloody awful crusade or invasion, rinse and repeat.’  
  
‘Quite.’ Aziraphale leans forward, the better to see into the shadow of the cage. ‘If I bring you a coffee will you drink it? I’m fairly sure I know how to work the machine.’  
  
He half expects a roll of the eyes and a comment about not being filled with confidence, but Crowley isn’t quite there yet. He just thinks for a second, and then nods.  
  
Lies back and listens to the kitchen sounds. The comforting tortured noise of steam under pressure, and Aziraphale humming; and it’s cosy, Crowley thinks, in here. Taking a teeny espresso cup (the coffee is fine, but Aziraphale has no idea about crema or presentation. It’s just a very strong double shot in a thick porcelain cup with red and green stripes on a white background), which he has to lay on his back to drink, with his head propped up on a cushion and his knees turned sideways.  
  
Aziraphale lays on the blanket with the newspaper, reading him bits and pieces, and it’s absurd, but somehow very Sunday morning, that long stretch there used to be when the shops were closed all day and nothing but religious programs on the BBC. Crowley pokes his fingers out through the bars and Aziraphale kisses them and it’s quite revoltingly peaceful.  
  
‘So..’ Crowley says at last, after night has fallen, when Aziraphale still hasn’t covered him up, and still hasn’t taken him out. Mixed messages, surely?  
  
‘Ah.’  
  
‘Clearly we’re not stopping,' Crowley says, and again - 'So?’  
  
‘Another week my dear?’ Aziraphale pokes his fingers through the bars expectantly, clearly wanting, demanding, Crowley suck on them again.  
  
He obliges, adds in a bit of tongue and the slightest hint of teeth, so that Aziraphale has to tap him on the nose again. Sinks contentedly back down on his cushions.  
  
‘Week sounds good.’  
  
‘I shall endeavour to be more strict with you if you wish.’  
  
‘S’fine angel. You only need to be as strict as you want.’  
  
‘Thank you darling. Sleep tight now.’  
  
And the blanket descends.


	17. Spice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

Aziraphale has him up again before breakfast next morning, sucking drowsily on the angel’s cock before first light, then tidied away whilst Aziraphale makes breakfast with the radio on and the windows open, so that the sounds of Monday morning in London – cars and buses and people off to their respective jobs – are invited in to mingle with Martha Kearney’s adroit steering of a radio panel of two lesser-known politicians through a civilised debate on railway infrastructure.  
  
Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon and, rather naughtily, the knowledge that everyone else is going to work while he has Crowley waiting for him, top off Aziraphale’s feeling of quietly bubbling contentment.  
  
_‘Life, London, this moment of June..’_ he quotes to himself, although of course it’s truly the last day of August, and will actually be September tomorrow.  
  
After breakfast he makes some adjustments in the one bedroom – a room he hasn’t yet used at all. Plumps up the pillows on the bed and lays them down the middle, so that Crowley will be slightly raised from hip to head when he’s bound down to it, wrists either side of the solid mahogany of the headboard. Pulls the curtains closed and banishes any dust. Sets out two plugs of different sizes, and a jar of lubricant.  
  
It’s a nice big jar, a rich creamy emulsion that melts into a thin film at body temperature.  
  
Warming too, but not excessively so. Just enough to leave subtle trails of spice as Aziraphale massages it down Crowley’s chest, teasing his nipples until they’re hard, playing over the ribs and stroking Crowley’s sparse happy trail the wrong way until it sticks to his skin. He touches the stuff to Crowley’s lips, and has him suck at Aziraphale’s fingers to set his tongue tingling. More a sensation than a taste, but only temporarily.  
  
Crowley is pliable under the massage, soft with contentment as Aziraphale reaches his cock, feeling it grow thick and firm in his hand as he greases it all over, massages it with his fingertips, takes it fully in hand and works it almost sedately, almost idly, before apparently losing interest and delving down to cup his balls instead, taking more of the spiced unguent to knead gently into them, to work his hands into the crease between thigh and pelvis, thumbs stroking over the thin skin until it ripples.  
  
Then back to his erection to press the heel of his hand over the head and massage down the length, back and forwards, gradually growing quicker.  
  
Crowley’s hips jerk up involuntarily as Aziraphale abandons the handjob to trail off again, fingers drifting down Crowley’s inner thigh, skirting back up over his hips to his belly, circling the sensitive skin of his nipple. Dallying awhile before moving back down again to his cock and closing his hand around it, pretending, again, that he intends to bring Crowley off.  
  
This time he brings him close enough that Crowley is panting. Is rather lovely, with the sheen of new sweat on his skin, and the warmth of a delicious desperation as Aziraphale keeps him turned on, touching him everywhere but the one place he needs, or stopping there too gently, too briefly. Slowing his hand, like an engine piston that has run out of steam, stopping short with a small squeeze that feels like a warning. A _don’t you dare_ , while Crowley slumps back to the soft cotton of the bedlinen, the quietest of whimpers escaping his lips.  
  
It’s really not that long before he starts to beg. Just one word at first, as his cock is let drop back against his belly.  
  
_‘Please.’_  
  
Aziraphale smiles. Leans in to lick and stroke and gently pull Crowley’s nipple between his teeth in a way he knows will throb straight down between his legs. Soothing it with his thumb afterwards, teasing. Then kissing him, his own hand over one bound wrist to hold him down while he does it, feeling Crowley’s pulse beat against the pressure of his palm, Crowley’s kisses sweet and frantic.  
  
A touch of that warming lubricant behind his balls, and Crowley obediently draws his legs up, parted, letting Aziraphale press his fingers in first, feeling the heat of it radiate out inside him. The angel has already abandoned his robe, and now he slicks his own erection in the same stuff, enjoying the tingle of it, parting Crowley’s thighs almost impossibly wide so that he can watch his cock disappear, inch by inch, into the different warmth of Crowley’s body.  
  
Crowley’s eyes flutter closed, and he wishes for something to bite down on, some way to ground himself. Instead his fingernails slide against the edge of the varnished headboard, and he is spitted, raw, taken too soon and too far gone to care. Aziraphale’s slicked fingers slide over his cock again, grip and tease until another quiet plea falls from his lips.  
  
Then Aziraphale moves his own hips, and Crowley groans, the sound pulled from deep inside his chest as he is slowly, soundly, fucked. His hips twitch with frustration, trying to make the angel go faster, but Aziraphale only smacks him lightly on the rump, as one might a disobedient horse, and keeps to his own steady pace.  
  
‘Fuck.’ Crowley says, and barely notices when he is smacked again. ‘Angel, please. Do it properly. Let me come.’  
  
‘No.’ Aziraphale had a longer speech ready in his head earlier, while he was tying Crowley up, while he was teasing him with his hands and mouth. He can remember just one word of it now. But that one word is enough.  
  
‘Don’t.. don’t you want..’ Crowley stumbles over his temptation, eyes open again to be all the more persuasive, caught by Aziraphale’s steadily possessive gaze as he pumps in and out, in and out. Crowley is trapped, hypnotised, can’t look away.  
  
‘Behave.’ Aziraphale says. It doesn’t sound like a request.  
  
From that moment Crowley knows perfectly well that he is not going to get what he wants, and yet the pleas still slip out, the small shudders of pleasure, promises of things the angel must know are already his, always his.  
  
That, too, slips off Crowley’s traitorous tongue, part of a litany, an endless stream of words, quiet, frantic, urgent as Aziraphale accelerates at last. Almost delirious as Aziraphale comes inside him, and Crowley is left unsated.  
  
‘Ssh.’ Aziraphale soothes, as he slides the smaller plug in his place to keep Crowley ready, to bottle up everything he’s just poured out into him. It’s sleek, and chrome, and curved just right so that when Aziraphale presses down on the blunt end the nose of it rubs, gentle and slick and not enough, against Crowley’s prostate.  
  
Crowley trembles, but he does as he’s told. He’s quiet. Allows his legs to be stretched out, his ankles buckled wide apart, either end of a strap that runs beneath the bedframe. Turns his face to accept the angel’s kisses over his cheeks and lips and the bridge of his nose, and then the blindfold, wrapped twice around his head and tucked in.  
  
Aziraphale slicks his hands up again before touching him, cream warming and melting on Crowley’s body as he strokes and squeezes, hands edging closer to Crowley’s erection, then flirting away again, seemingly skittish, until they finally settle there, giving the demon a taste of what he wants before deserting him again.  
  
Yet Crowley still can’t help a flutter of hope every time Aziraphale takes his cock in his hand. Can’t help the way his hips lift off the bed, trying to speed things up, and the whine that escapes him as Aziraphale pulls his hand up to just the very head of Crowley’s erection, watching it disappear and reappear in one fist, while the other closes round the rest and keeps him still.  
  
Then he rubs across with the heel of his hand again, and moves on.  
  
The next – possibly eighth? time he almost miscalculates, takes Crowley so close that he is shuddering, his thighs locking in anticipation.  
  
He sobs with disappointment as Aziraphale’s hands drop away. Begins, again, to babble.  
  
Aziraphale smiles, fond but not forbearing, and keeps Crowley ticking over, stringing it out while Crowley begs and begs. No thought of rebellion in his head, no thought of anything except how badly he wants to come. Words spill from his lips: angel, master, darling, please let me come, please let me come, please..  
  
Aziraphale doesn’t. Crowley is close to hysteria by the time the angel unties his ankles and pushes his knees back so that he can slide the plug free. With one eager and almost vicious thrust, he takes his place again.  
  
The sex is frantic, an urgent plundering of Crowley’s body that leaves Aziraphale weak with satisfaction and Crowley still shivering with want. Shuddering but unresisting as the plug is pressed back in, his ankles retied, and Aziraphale resumes tormenting him where he left off.  
  
There are pauses – a meal that Aziraphale has brought to the door, this time, while Crowley lies trembling and naked, barely hidden and barely able to care. One very brief conversation, when Aziraphale explains that Crowley isn’t going to come. Not tonight and probably not tomorrow, and Crowley feels his skin shiver with want but doesn't say a word.  
  
Nevertheless he shudders the next time he’s buggered, ripples of shocked sensation rolling over him, threatening to pull him apart. His cheeks are hot and wet with tears. His limbs jerk beyond his control as the plug is pressed back in.  
  
‘Please let me come. Please.’ He’s barely aware of what the words signify now. Repeats and repeats them almost without meaning, as Aziraphale binds his ankles and begins again.  
  
And then finally Aziraphale is asking him a question - and for a few long moments Crowley can’t think what the words mean, can’t think at all. Can’t focus on the larger buttplug that Aziraphale has unravelled the blindfold to show him. Thicker and heavier and longer, so that Crowley will feel it every time he wakes up in the night, in his cage, captive and handcuffed and stuffed full, curled up on his side, dreams fitful and dirty.  
  
His whole body seems to heat impossibly more as he looks at it, and bites his lip, and nods. Then there’s the stretch, and Crowley shudders, arches, is so close – so aroused just from the idea of being left like this he could almost get off anyway.  
  
But only almost. Aziraphale means him to be frustrated, and he does so love to give the angel what he wants. Stumbles back to the usual room clinging to Aziraphale’s arm, body twisting protectively around his rigid, useless, erection. Lays himself down feeling used up. Dirty. Never more so.  
  
Being told he’s a good boy is just the icing on the cake.

And of course Aziraphale can lay him down in a shallow nest of pillows and blankets as the sun comes up next morning, bound wrists folded under his head, hips raised and legs parted, and barely needs to slick himself up to bugger Crowley senseless.  
  
This day, Tuesday, the first of September, there is no teasing. White noise is filling Crowley’s head again, a passive heaviness weighing his body, as Aziraphale comes in him and plugs him, then tucks him away in his cage, repeatedly, without loosening the handcuffs, and only retying the blindfold when it looks like working free.  
  
They don’t talk, and Crowley has the strangest sensation of being absorbed, subsumed into Aziraphale like the avatar must have been, so that his own pleasure doesn’t matter because there isn’t any such thing as ‘his own pleasure’, only Aziraphale’s, of which he is a smaller part. Speech would be pointless.  
  
When he finally gets to come, on the third morning, he has almost given up expecting it.  
  
He’s clean – a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers lifts the last two days of excess off his skin - but his mind still feels floaty, impressionable, and he expects nothing, asks for nothing, as he’s loosed and bound, caged and uncaged, as Aziraphale takes his mouth or brings him off with the quick efficiency of practice, as though Crowley were a machine that required orgasm to keep in tune.  
  
He still feels, on some level, as if he isn’t really here. As if he doesn’t exist except in the reflection of Aziraphale’s eyes, and is dimly aware that he’s fallen back into this state of mind more quickly than before, and perhaps it should worry rather than comfort him.  
  
Instead he feels warm, and settled, all coiled up in his box, waiting but not expectant. He feels _right_.  
  
‘Lovely thing.’ Aziraphale tells him. ‘Oh you were made for this, my dear.’ And feeds him sweets laced with something that makes Crowley’s head spin, limbs sluggish and soft, sensation coming to him as if through velvet as Aziraphale takes Crowley’s lax cock in his mouth and flirts it with his tongue, sucks the limp, yielding length, and Crowley twitches minutely, but neither makes a sound nor gets hard.  
  
The effects are wearing off by the time Aziraphale has him draped over the desk, knees spread wide, and he moans weakly as Aziraphale plugs him again between acts. Swallows more drugged sugar when he’s offered it, and licks Aziraphale’s fingers clean of it too, when he’s told.  
  
After that he’s not sure what happens, only wakes with a sense of having been well used, of lightly scattered bruises from groping fingers and little lovebites, of pulled hair and an arse that surely wouldn’t feel so empty if it hadn’t recently been more than full.  
  
‘Bath.’ Aziraphale suggests, locking the bathroom door before setting Crowley in warm water and sponging over him, and Crowley is non-verbal but obedient, sinking into the foam and closing his eyes. Untethered except to his angel.  
  
This is easy. All he has to do is obey. Let Aziraphale dictate the next thing, and the next.  
  
So it confuses him, really rather a lot, when Aziraphale tilts his head back to look in his eyes, his face tightening around his eyes the way it does when something is troubling him, and asks Crowley if he’s quite alright.  
  
It takes him longer than it should to find the words he wants to answer.  
  
‘’m fine.’ He says at last, blinking (something he realises now he’d been forgetting to do). ‘Not a week yet, surely?’ The world is coming back into focus, he is coming back into focus, and he doesn’t want it. Isn’t ready.  
  
‘Ssh. no my dear. A little while yet.’ Aziraphale soothes, not entirely sorry to have broken such a troubling spell (he had looked at Crowley and it was like he wasn’t there, moving in a trance, catatonic, and it had scared him how far in thrall he was holding his demon) but not wanting to bring him out of it too fast, too harshly. ‘Settle down now.’  
  
And Crowley does settle, but there’s more awareness than before, eyes focussed on Aziraphale as Crowley sucks his cock, kneeling there on the bathroom floor, hands splayed out either side of Aziraphale’s hips as the angel leans back against the tiles, the better to cant his hips forward into Crowley’s waiting mouth.  
  
He handcuffs Crowley again as soon as he’s dry, unlocks the bathroom door with the key in his pocket, but keeps him close, if curled up on a cushion, watching him sink deeper again. Half-drugged on his own submission, and touchingly defenceless.  
  
He does make a lovely pet. Aziraphale tries and fails not to be shocked at himself for thinking so. Crowley is so much more than that.  
  
Just – not right now.

With three days to go Aziraphale doesn’t leave the flat. He wants to make the most of the time they have. Of Crowley in this tender, pliant state.  
  
He wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t want it to be over. He still doesn’t. But there will be mince pies in the shops soon, and he will have to put the heating on if Crowley is to go naked, and he misses his shop, and their late night bottles of wine in the back room, and possibly even the customers.  
  
Crowley will probably be cross that his plants have been allowed to get complacent. He’s looking forward to seeing the demon cross. Hearing him say something mordant and mocking. Strut about acting cool and groovy and oh so nonchalant.  
  
Telling him ‘Nobody says groovy nowadays, but hey angel, you’re only fifty years out of date’.  
  
At present though he’s savouring the last drops of self-indulgence, running his hands over Crowley’s skin, his fingers through his hair, quietly possessive, kneeling him up between Aziraphale’s knees to mouth over his cock, spreading him out to toy with him until Crowley is trembling, and then taking him at his leisure.  
  
He even – once or twice – dispenses with his refractory period, reaching for Crowley while the demon is still languid and flushed from their last round, his own cum damp on his belly.  
  
Day slips into night, slips into day, but the time of day has never meant very much to Aziraphale, and now he dispenses with it for Crowley too, waking him to bear him into the snug, to put his pretty mouth to use, or lay him down on the floor and press those absurdly limber legs back about his ears.  
  
Or just to look at him, bound and hard for Aziraphale. Waiting to be touched but too well-behaved to ask for what he wants. Too lost in this game they’re playing, Aziraphale thinks, but doesn’t try to pull him out of it. Time enough for that when it’s over.  
  
This is the time to be selfish. To let himself be distracted from the books he’s reading, set them down even in the middle of a chapter, and return to more carnal delights, filling Crowley’s arse and spending into his willing throat.  
  
The time to tease Crowley with a vibrator until he breaks his silence, begging and promising to be good, so good. Then to give him what he wants, and soak up the babbling gratitude after. To shush him gently and imprison him for probably the last time.  
  
Or at least, the last time until the next.


	18. Dirty Martini

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To pinch the OP's wording on the meme: Aziraphale kidnaps Crowley and keeps him in a cage, only taking him out for sex. It was Crowley's fantasy originally.
> 
> This does get a little spicy - please see the tags/warnings for later chapters but I promise there's nothing here not consensual. That said, pls do let me know if I've missed one. This is already written and will be posted three chapters per day to let me check for typos and such.

Crowley both laughs and cries when Aziraphale tells him their time’s up. Not with the sobs or the laughter of hysteria, just a watery sort of chuckle and a few tears that soak into his angel’s shirt as he clings close.  
  
The clinginess will linger, ebb and resurface in moments of shivering and seeking the angel’s warmth, but the snark takes barely an hour to return, even if he does snuggle more tightly into Aziraphale’s side after the first slice of sarcasm, afraid of getting himself in trouble.  
  
‘Silly boy.’ Aziraphale says, and tightens the arm he wrapped around Crowley’s waist. ‘As if I haven’t missed all that.’  
  
There’s something chock-full of car chases on the TV – Crowley chose it – and he’s swaddled in a lap blanket and oversized bathrobe, hair still a little damp and trying to curl. He smells of orange bath salts and the coffee he’s drinking, like lazy days in Seville in the ‘20s.  
  
There are salty nibbles and a dirty martini to follow, since the drinks trolley has all the bits and pieces. Crowley laughs at Aziraphale’s moves with a cocktail shaker, but the finished product is perfectly acceptable.  
  
And then there is more coffee because he has goosebumps again, despite the warmth of the room and the season, the blankets draped over him, the robe wrapped around. Pressing into Aziraphale’s side, silently demanding reassurance. Aziraphale pulls him in, hands sliding under the robe, skin to skin, undemanding but promising that there will be other times.  
  
Crowley lets the moment wash over him and feels warmth radiate out from Aziraphale’s lips, his breath, his touch. Feels the urge to slip to his knees at the angel’s feet build and then slowly recede.  
  
‘I’m fine.’ And he is. It’s going to take a little while for Crowley to readjust, but he has his coffee and something is exploding dramatically on the television and he’s sweeping his fringe back out of his eyes as he sits up to watch it.  
  
Aziraphale sips at his own drink, and smiles, and doesn't even attempt serious conversation until the next morning. 

‘Do you think you’ll keep this flat?’ He asks, at last, when he judges Crowley ready. When Crowley has, over 24 hours, drunk a small lake worth of coffee, stretched out in a proper bed for a little snooze, watched more (and to Aziraphale’s mind, worse) TV, retuned the radio to Planet Rock while Aziraphale was reading (and back to something worthy about T S Eliot after), reacquainted himself with his smartphone and social media, and made toast for breakfast while Aziraphale stirred the eggs.

Now the demon only makes an indefinite noise around a forkful of smoked salmon and scrambled egg, a sound which Aziraphale correctly interprets as ‘I haven’t made my mind up yet.’  
  
They obviously don’t need the flat – they already have one redundant living space between them – Crowley claims he only held onto it this long for the rent, and because the value of property in London has spiralled ever upwards in the last half century (Aziraphale, who has chatted with the neighbours whilst waiting for the lift, suspects it was also one of Crowley’s secret kindnesses, not selling out from under the couple who lived there from 1952 to 2004. He does not call Crowley out on this).

The kettle whistles again on the old fashioned hob, and Aziraphale gets up to add more boiling water to the teapot for a second cup, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s temple just because he happens to be in kissing range.  
  
‘Should we debrief, do you think?’ He asks, almost conversational, as he sets the fat brown pot down on the cork mat in the exact centre of the kitchen table. He’d been worried yesterday was too soon, but Crowley seems his usual strident self now. And Aziraphale is more than ready for that discussion.  
  
‘You first.’ Crowley’s grin is wicked. Aziraphale’s answering glare has no real heat in it.  
  
‘It was.. very nice.’ He says primly. ‘Very..’  
  
‘Hmm.?’ If anything the demonic smirk gets wider as Crowley interrogates without using any real words at all. Aziraphale gives in.  
  
‘Oh very well, you _fiend_. It was delicious. Of course.’  
  
‘Would do again?’ Crowley asks.  
  
‘Quite definitely. Although there are a few adjustments I might propose next time. And yourself?’  
  
‘Oh I was out of it. Gone. Didn’t want to come down.’  
  
‘Yes I..’ Aziraphale tries to think of the best way to say that he worries. Worries that Crowley was created to be compliant and unquestioning, as all angels are. As both angels and demons are still, mostly, not thinking to query their role in punishing human souls, or why they need endure the bleak emptiness of heaven, the damp and fusty corridors of hell.  
  
Crowley is the one who’s different, endlessly inquiring, even when answers are few.  
  
But there is still this need to comply. A need Aziraphale reawakened in him, just as he has awoken desire in the angel. A need that Aziraphale is happy to satisfy, but not to take too great an advantage of.  
  
‘Not – I mean, I still knew where I was.’ Clearly Crowley has picked up on Aziraphale’s anxiety. Is answering that rather than the half broken sentence.  
  
‘I’m sorry my dear. I just – it troubles me when I’m so very selfish.’  
  
‘I adore you when you’re selfish. The more selfish the better.’  
  
‘Nevertheless.’ Aziraphale says. ‘I should like to take you to bed this evening and allow you to set the pace, as it were.’  
  
Crowley’s grin becomes, most appropriately, a diabolical thing. ‘But why wait until this evening?’ He asks. ‘We could fit in any amount of sweet, sweet love before lunch.’  
  
‘Now that you mention it.’ Aziraphale admits. ‘That does sound appealing.’  
  
There is an old fashioned net curtain at the window of the bedroom, affording privacy but allowing the late summer sun through, casting a warm rectangle of light to bask in as they kiss, Crowley’s fingers pressing into the softer flesh at Aziraphale’s belly and thighs now he can touch, while the angel’s lips wander from Crowley’s mouth to his jaw, to the vulnerable length of his throat, and back to his mouth again.  
  
Despite his determination to go at Crowley’s pace, it is Aziraphale’s hand that skims the slender lines of Crowley’s torso, the smoother curve of his hip. Takes the firm weight of his cock in hand, staring boldly out at the pleasure and amusement in Crowley’s eyes, because the angel just can’t help himself - and why should he, when that’s how they both like it?  
  
Crowley mirrors the movement more slowly, since he intends to finish Aziraphale with his mouth, slink down the bed bonelessly content after his own orgasm, press the angel down on his back, wrap his lips around and take his sweet time swallowing.  
  
Playful, Aziraphale thinks, once Crowley’s head is between his legs and Crowley’s amber eyes are teasing up at him, his palms splayed out on the angel’s hips to hold him steady, and to remind him that he had suggested Crowley set the pace. Even though, in truth, he is not going to make his angel wait one second more than is comfortable.  
  
Closes his eyes the better to concentrate as soon as Aziraphale’s hips begin to twitch, and his fingers curl into the sheets in lieu of tangling and clutching in Crowley’s hair. Trying very hard not to make demands.  
  
Crowley gives him what he wants anyway, meets his slightly guilty expression afterwards with a smirk, and tugs him back down onto the pillows again.  
  
They've got the rest of the day, and after that they have forever. There's no rush.


End file.
